


Swallowing the Brimstone

by Sleepmarshes



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Adult Situations, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, F/F, F/M, Gen, Genocide, M/M, Murder, images of blood and gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 71,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepmarshes/pseuds/Sleepmarshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his father’s stead, Thane has been tasked with protecting the valuable fortress of Iron Town, but between wolf gods, demon curses, Star Clan, and the Aranei Empress, every choice leads to bloodshed. Alongside Thane are three warriors: Maka, a cursed princess exiled from her home; Black Star, an assassin who must kill a god to earn his independence; and Mifune, a mercenary who must protect a young girl. Together, these four people are tasked with walking a path that few have ever dared, chosen by the gods to see with eyes unclouded. A Princess Mononoke AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fathers

**Author's Note:**

> Fanarts in this story were created by tumblr users [ Blackstar](http://blackstar.tumblr.com/) and [Tilliquoi.](http://tilliquoi.tumblr.com/)  
>  This isn't _close_ to everything they made for this story, so please see ALL the great art they did for Brimstone [here](http://marshofsleep.tumblr.com/post/137380315124/with-help-from-my-artists-and-betas-i-humbly).  
>  They deserve so much more recognition than I can possibly give them in my entire lifetime.  
>  You can also find some concept art I have done as well in [this post](http://marshofsleep.tumblr.com/post/137380358839/here-are-a-few-of-the-things-ive-been-doing-while).
> 
>  

 

**_Thane_ **

\\\

Your father wears a bone-white mask. The curse has spread to his face, causing his eyes to roam in that crazed, unhinged way that tends to make the townsfolk nervous. You pour the tea, adding the exact amount of pungent, powdered herbs his healer has taught you to use.

He pats you gently on the forearm, taking the earthenware cup. “I regret the heavy burdens I have caused for you,” he says, pushing his mask just far enough up his face to expose his black-tinged mouth.

 “I am glad to carry them,” you reply.

You take your seat on a worn floor cushion, pulling a roll of parchment from your sash that contains the latest progress reports of Iron Town. You brief him on the status of his burgeoning empire as you do every morning at dawn, the eastern sun dripping through your father’s bedroom window to paint his blackened hand in reds and yellows.

Would that you could stay here and attend him; would that you could understand his sickness and rid both him and the score of infected townsfolk of it. But you can’t watch your father every hour of the day-- he has bestowed responsibility to you and you will not be neglectful. After discussing various events and listening to his input, you bid him farewell. You have a job to do.

 

\\\

 

“But how are you to do your job if you keep _injuring yourself,_ ” says Ox. Your personal guard is only two and a half years your senior, but he is loyal and dedicated in his protection of you. You trust his judgment in most things, so you attempt to sit and bear his scolding until you can no longer resist the urge to defend yourself.

“Had I not stepped in,” you blurt, “we would have lost an entire cart of food and supplies.” You try to breathe steadily as your father’s healer slathers your ribs in an acrid poultice. “Not to mention the mules.”

“And had **I** not ‘stepped in’, we would be bereft another leader as well.” Ox pulls off his spectacles, rubbing them against the hem of his tunic to clear off the afternoon mist rolling off the mountain. He scowls, dryly adding, “I would rather we lose a few beasts and bags of grain than our ‘village prince’, _sir._ ”

You heave a sigh and instantly regret it-- Moro had knocked you into the cliff face and your ribs are horribly tender. “I understand. I am, as always, in your debt.”

“Damned right, you’re in my debt. I’ll take over the day’s inventory, so do the town a favor and visit the bellows girls before they drive us all insane.”

You groan, watching your right hand man stomp off through the soggy mud to the storage houses.

“Forgive his personality, my lord,” the healer woman says as she cinches off the bandage supporting your ribs. “He was only worried for your safety. I, for one, am grateful for the supplies you protected-- I have been waiting on this shipment of herbs for weeks. Going without would have been a setback.”

Pulling your tunic back down to your waist, you gingerly test the limits of your sore chest with a measured breath. You knew very well what had been in that cart-- the sick of Iron Town, including your father, depended on those herbs, so there had been no hesitation in risking your life. “Your work is impressive, as usual. And a boon to our town. We’re lucky to have you.”

Rinsing her hands in a bowl of water, she replies with small smile, “Between the Star Clan and the Empress warring across the Territories, one would be a fool to not take advantage of this safe haven. Sephtis has made something great, here.” After drying her hands, she passes you a small jar of salve. “Put this on at night and wash off the remains in the morning.”

You nod. “Please continue to watch over my father and the others in my absence.”

“Of course,” she says easily, golden braid falling over one shoulder as she inclines her head to you.

“My thanks, Medusa.”

 

 

* * *

**_Maka_ **

\\\

You were to join this cold season.

Tsugumi had been promised to your mother’s firstborn, the act of which would’ve formally cemented her outlander family to the close-knit community you call home. When you were born a year later, you were raised with the knowledge that you would one day support her and share a hearth, nestled among all the other dwellings in the thick forest of your Eastland village.

Towards this end, you were raised together. She is dear to you. She is about to die.

You had just returned from your snare run, clothes damp with morning dew, your game sack heavy with rabbit and quail. Astride your elk, something in the air made your hair stand on end just as you were about to pass through the brilliantly colored autumn trees that ringed the hidden clearing. Nothing seemed amiss in the village, tucked in the grassy valley below, but you stopped your mount, stilling before leaving the safety of the forest.

The air was tainted somehow, but it did not leave a taste in your mouth so much as an unwanted touch beneath your skin. Your elk sensed it too, trembling under your legs, his ears turning about, searching, searching--

A chill ran down your spine the moment he found the source of your shared dread.

The demon was a massive beast, a salamander greater than the largest building in the village. Skin all rippling, sickly shades of crimson, he moved so quickly that his limbs were simply a blur. He entered the valley from the western treeline, tail whipping behind him and flinging long, acidic tendrils of disease in its wake. Destruction and pestilence followed, leaving a clear path through the corrupted forest.

You dropped the sack of game. There was one singular moment of clarity amidst the intense fear blooming in you, the implicit knowledge that this demon would rip your village apart in mere minutes if you did not _act._

As you urged your elk forward, you recall childhood tales about beasts of such size: ancient gods of old, kings of nature who rule their kind. They were portrayed as powerful, intelligent beings who were to be respected.

But those firelight stories never imparted a sense of fear or terror. No one had mentioned giant demons who would threaten life unprovoked. There had been no warnings for gods of madness.

You unsheathed your crescent-shaped dagger, bidding your elk to give chase though you hadn’t the faintest idea what you could do to a god with a mere knife, and then you saw three girls turn the bend of the retaining wall of the village -- two of whom you knew well; one you knew best. The girls laid eyes on the demon the same instant he spied them, and that barest heartbeat of a moment made your guts drop to the earth.

Meme shouted in alarm, and you watched as the three turned and fled for the village gates, the salamander darting after them with a roar. You frantically chased after all four, gaining on the demon with your mount. The elk stretched to keep pace with the god as you tried to grab his attention, shouting prayers and pleas, attempting to appeal to the intelligence the stories told of, but you were ignored. And in the dewy meadow grass ahead of you, Tsugumi _slipped._

Anya stood her ground and drew her sword as Meme struggled to get Tsugumi back up. You all knew they would simply be trampled to death by the demon, with the village following shortly thereafter. There was no time left. You made the briefest of contact with Tsugumi’s wide, familiar eyes.

You were to join this winter, and she is about to die.

So now, with a howling cry that makes your vision go white around the edges, you leap from the elk’s back and reach for the salamander’s slick face with your blade. You cling with a snarl, an angry beast in your own right, and as you carve out the god’s eyes and feel his flesh searing into yours, an unprecedented hatred spreads through you.

 

\\\

 

You wake in your father’s house, his silhouette blurring with the morning light. He stands just past the entrance, hand outstretched with birdseed, looking shorter than you’re used to without the headdress. The wind plays in his red hair.

Like your mother once had, he spends time in the morning to feed the birds, and has done so every day since her exile. Chickadees land on Spirit’s fingers, snatching mouthfuls of food before flitting away again, their presence so fleeting that, if not for the disappearing seed, the brief moment could be mistaken as entirely imagined. This, too, is like your mother.

Though you and your father have not always seen eye to eye, your heart does stir at the somber and despairing tilt in his posture. You feel a vague guilt for being his daughter. You are a princess of this village, but you are also a princess who had thrown herself at the maw of a demon with little thought of the outcome.

In fact, you hadn’t expected to win, much less _live._

Your skin aches at the thought of the demon god. Upon weak-limbed investigation, you discover burn scars darker than a moonless night curling up your forearms and underneath the sleeves of your tunic.

You’ve been marked. When you hold your breath, something deadly whispers promises in your veins, voices slowly working on you from the inside-- a colony breaking you down and carrying you away piece by piece to leave behind a rippling crimson thing.

You glance back over to the shape of your father, noticing, this time, the wet sheen on his cheek. You close your eyes and feign sleep just a bit longer.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Mifune_ **

\\\

The Loresingers warned of beings who walked between worlds in places like this.

You duck inside the decrepit entry of a ruined ivonhall, the wet autumn damp dripping from charred, rotting eaves onto your head. It’s a shame, you think, that Angela couldn’t see the halls in their prime, born too late to hear Songs that never seemed to stop even in the deepest of night.

Then again, neither will she ever know the misery of seeing such a grand thing fall. A decade has passed since its demise, but the hall still smells of war, stale with death. You bed down in a relatively dry corner of crumbling walls and pillars, listening as Angela begins to sing. Her Song lights a small fire to warm you both through the night, the echo of her voice in the ruins reminiscent of distant choirs.

Even with the fire, the ruins give you a continual chill down your spine, as if the life you’ve known to the core of your bones doesn’t hold any truth in this space. If there’s any truth to be had here at all, it may be in those old haunted tales the Loresingers keep: ghosts and spirits who only exist in doorways, in liminal pockets of the sacred, dancing between two very different worlds but ultimately part of neither.

You think you might know, in a small way, what it is to walk a path like that.

 

\\\

Like the shadow of a bird cast by the midday sun, something passes behind your closed eyes and you snap awake just in time to see a figure drifting out of view.

The fire has burned to mere cinders. You unfurl yourself from around Angela, standing silently, willing your heart to still so you can listen for the sound of footsteps. Ears straining, you hear nothing save the barest suggestion of cloth dragging across the rubble of the ivonhall.

Quickly recounting all the people who may have seen the both of you yesterday, you try to remember any one of them who might have indicated a desire to come and claim Angela’s head. You stalk after the stranger in the dark of the ruins, hand on the hilt of your sword. You slip around a corner and pause, watching as that shadowy figure passes through the doorway and merges with the night.

A ghost, maybe. If only you could be sure it was a ghost-- the dead have no need for kindred flesh. But you won’t risk letting anyone breathing know where the girl is hiding. You must cut them down before word gets out. You hasten after the figure, drawing your sword--

And then the very walls of the ivonhall seem to whisper with echoes of Loresingers long dead. Before you can step foot outside, the hilt of your weapon goes hot in your hands and, overwhelmed, you make the mistake of blinking.

The sword falls from your fingers and neatly lands between stalks of rich grass, blade stuck into earth. You are in a verdant village, sun at high noon, your eyes watering from the intense change in light. Villagers bustle about: three girls hauling heavy baskets of fish from a river; a dark-skinned man in ancient farseer’s garb, eyes focused far away; a man in ornate robes struggling to settle a headdress comfortably over his red topknot; dozens of people surrounding you, heedless of you and strangely half-present, as if a fog shrouds them from direct sight.

Loud chirping pierces your ears, startlingly close. You whip your head to the side, finding yourself a few paces away from a large circle of carefully-built stone, forming a pit for a hearty fire. On its rim is a drab, tawny sparrow, which chirps at you with insistence.

You must get back to Angela-- you know this as simple, irrefutable fact-- but likewise you must also walk to the fire, beckoned by something you cannot resist. The bird flits away, the sun glinting off its tiny body and blinding you. Left in its place is a polished white stone engraved with an emblem. Picking it up and resting it in your palm, you recognize the symbol of the Empress: a rounded, fanged mask with two sets of eyes.

A blink and you’re back in the ivonhall, curled around Angela as dawn approaches. She stirs, complaining about her everlasting hunger and asking for what is left of your nearly drained provisions. You nod towards your bag, and while she digs around for breakfast, you carefully uncurl your fingers and find the milk-white stone carved with the mark of Arachne in your hand, as warm as if it had been near a fire.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Black Star_ **

\\\

“I ought to kill you for merely making the suggestion,” the Warbringer growls, steel-tipped fingers digging into your throat. You’re several hand-spans off the ground, shoved against the wall by his sheer strength. You don’t attempt escape, though you likely could with more ease than anyone else in the Clan -- you think he knows this too.

He has eaten recently. His eyes have that gleam of distant stars, power-rich with stolen blessings. Energy rolls off him in stormy swirls. Out of all the Clan who’ve eaten the flesh of kindred, your sire retains the most of his self-control. Even if you feel nothing else for him, you respect this much, at least.

He sneers-- the usual expression whenever you are present-- and his fingers dig a shade deeper in your neck. “My own blood would renounce the Clan?” You are tossed aside like a doll, crashing into the rusted cage where White Star’s next meal bares its fangs, spitting in fearful rage. “Of course it would be you. You have been a smear on my name since your first breath.”

It’s not _your_ fault the way he rules Star Clan is both stifling and stale.

The kindred inside the cage you’ve landed on shoves you from behind the bars, tail whipping angrily as it claws you through your clothes. You hop back to your feet, rolling a shoulder. “I think we can both agree I am the thorn in your side,” you say, detaching one of many spiked metal balls from your belt and casually flinging it at the cage to get the thing to quit her infernal hissing. “I’m of no _use_ to you. One could question I’m even your blood.”

“If you are suggesting I simply end your life, I will gladly consider it,” he says, annoyed.

You shut your mouth. Perhaps you did not think this negotiation through well enough.

White Star stalks over to a heap of fine silks and cushions, the notorious Warbringer lounging on the pile like a satisfied cat. “You are wrong on two counts,” he says, and you watch as Clan servants bleed from the shadows to silently attend him, serving him fresh drink and platters of neatly prepared kinflesh. “There is no doubt that the last wretched waste your mother bore is you.”

The look he gives you then, blood dripping down his forearm to the stained floor as he sinks steel-tipped fingers into his meal, clutches at your spine with so much ice.

Voice as precise as the edge of a blade, he says, “And I will make _use_ of you yet.”

 

\\\

 

You sometimes wonder if your sire had simply been irritated over having to find a replacement to bear his children after you were born, or if he had actually once held compassion for Fallen Star. You can’t think about the latter option very long at all before you succumb to either laughter or nausea, but either way, White Star rests the blame of her death on you, and from day one on this earth you have owed a debt to the Clan that can’t be repaid.

It’s a crisp autumn morning when you sneak into the dining hall, though your caution turns out to be unnecessary-- the guards are in a bloody heap on the floor, a dozen or so of your Clan siblings sprawled about the room, recovering from last night’s feasting and brawling.

Despite being one of the chief’s blood, you had not been given the honor of tasting the Clan’s dish of choice, once again. There had been a time that this discrimination was infuriating, but you have come to think of your sire’s undiluted hatred for you as a blessing of sorts, however unintended.

These days you’d rather vie for a few run-of-the-mill dumplings for breakfast, and you always win, because there’s never any homicidal competition for _pork_ in Star Clan. You pick your way around recuperating assassins to get to the dining table, and you nearly step on a rail-thin initiate trying to mop up the most recent bloodstains.

The man’s arm is angry from the red half-star recently hammered into his shoulder. He had most likely provided last night’s meal to buy his way into the Clan and earn a bed and two meals a day, which are the only reasons anyone joins the Clan anymore. After a length of loyal service, he too will be allowed to taste kindred, and then he’ll never want to leave.

Though eating the beast-people gave a person an undeniable burst of sheer power, you have watched countless brothers and sisters go drunk with it, crazed, tactless, and altogether forsaking any other means of acquiring strength. The idea of not having absolute control over yourself does not appeal in the slightest. You’re better off without-- you’re already twice the strength of Carmine, your father’s second in command, and that old bastard’s been eating kindred since you were ten, when the Doctrine War started.

The Star Clan is festering, deteriorating into something that bores you to tears. And though you still don’t understand why, it’s clear to you that White Star will not simply allow you to leave, even if your kindred-less existence undermines everything he uses to keep the Clan under his thumb. You want out-- you could be so much stronger if you could seek power your own way, without relying on cheap tricks to touch the stars.  

At the dining table you find some dumplings, pristine and untouched from last night’s feast, and you squirrel them away into your supplies. You step over another body without bothering to determine if it is or is not still breathing, and look for a secluded place to enjoy breakfast.

In a dusty alcove of the southern wing of the compound, you stuff your face and try to work out the best plan to leave this frozen, stagnant pit. You could probably avoid being caught by most anyone that White Star would send after you, but if the Warbringer came himself-- because your father has always enjoyed executing traitors with his own hands-- you have your doubts regarding your survival, as wont as you are to deny it.

You’re about to toss the last dumpling in your mouth when you sense the dagger flying at your head in the split-second before hearing the whistling blade. You catch it between two fingers before proceeding to eat the rest of your breakfast.

“What is it,” you say around a mouthful, idly tossing the dagger end over end and catching it again.

A servant creeps into the light from the alcove window, starry eyes squinting in the sun. They hand you a roll of parchment, the seal already broken. “Orders from the chief,” the servant sneers.

You unroll the note, a black star penned at the top in the Warbringer’s hand. The bulk of the message is a sketched image of the cover of some book, the center of which displays an intricate insignia of bones and fangs that reminds you somewhat of the old ivonhalls. You curl your lip at this, not understanding what White Star wants with kindred artifacts.

Underneath the illustration is a message. It reads:

_Bring this book to me. Let no eyes see it but yours._

Looking up, you see the servant still waits for your dismissal, though in all other aspects of life he is treated with more honor than you are by the rest of the Clan. You smile easily, waving the paper in your hand. “Did you read this?”

Blank-faced, the servant replies, “I did not.”

You nod. You toss him back his dagger and he catches it with his throat, blood bubbling down his chest as he collapses.  

“You lie better when you’re on the floor,” you say as you settle back into your alcove. Once more you look at White Star’s message, a thrill you haven’t felt in a long time tingling in your fingers and toes.

A special assignment meant only for you? Either your sire has found a use for you, or it’s a trap to try to kill you. In any case, you’re excited at the prospect. If you’re lucky, it will help train you to become even stronger. You want nothing more than to be a force before whom even the gods would bow-- to carve your name into the face of heaven.

 

 


	2. demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  

**_Thane_ **

\\\

 

The air leaves an unsettling taste in your mouth. Standing at your post on the battlement, your eyes strain for the hint of wolves. It’s a good night for another attack, the dim sliver of a moon providing more than enough light for the giant beasts to see by.

Moro and her sons have been attacking Iron Town nearly every fortnight, and sinking their fangs into your caravans on top of it. Her pack, though small, has grown steadily smarter in the past months-- Wes had deftly scaled the palisade with such ease last time, eager to wreck as much of the forge as he could before your riflemen had forced him to flee.

You glance once more to the hairline shimmer of the moon, and a vague sense of having been in this exact moment before settles in your bones. The dread squeezing your lungs is painfully familiar, and that’s when the blast of heat plows into you, the curtain wall of the fortress igniting as easily as kindling.

You’re choking, the flames greedily stealing the air before you can breathe it in. The bellows girls are screaming as the forge roof, alight from the outside, begins to cave. The battlements are crumbling out from under you, and you’re astonished to find yourself floating high above everything, watching as a great salamander, its body consumed by flame, rips the town apart before your eyes.

It’s then you realize your chest is _aching_. You scream, or try to-- you’re being constricted, crushed; with horror, your hands find the fiery whip-tail of the Salamander God tight around you, searing through your clothes and flesh and blood as it squeezes the life from your body.

He destroys both you and your home, taking from you what had been stolen from him.

 

\\\

 

Your chest burns. You wake with frantic, pained gasps, hands clawing at the bandages compressing your ribs. Pain shouts too loudly along your nerves for you to form a proper thought, so you struggle madly, wrenching and shredding gauze away to the frantic thudding of your heart.

When you touch the hot, cakey salve glued to your skin, rational thought returns in an instant. It is Medusa’s poultice that burns you, inspiring your nightmares. You should be used to this by now-- you’ve been applying it to your bruises since your run-in with Moro nearly two weeks ago.

There’s a gray tint to the sky telling of the coming dawn. With a sigh, you roll out of your furs and shuffle across the room to stoke the dying fire. Flashes of the salamander flicker behind your eyes, redder than the embers you stir.

As the fire catches, you make use of the light to evaluate the state of your ribs, brushing off dried salve. The bruising is horrendous underneath, yellow-green and purple haloing a startling black. The healer had told you things must become worse before they grow better, and it certainly both looks and feels worse.

You may as well start your day early, as you won’t be sleeping anytime soon after that dream. You wash off the remains of the salve, cringing as you cinch your sash around your midsection when you dress. Out of habit, you walk to your father’s quarters, only to belatedly remember he has not been well enough for your usual briefing the past four days. Poking your head in the doorway, you see him sleeping peacefully, and quietly pad away to find something quick to eat.

After a trek to the kitchens, you jump nearly out of your skin when you find Harvar at the hearth, warming his hands at a bubbling cookpot. “You dreamed of the water beast again,” he says without turning around. Still in his cloak and dark boots, he is a shadow at midnight even in front of the fire.

Your mouth pulls into a thin line. Where Ox is your right hand, Harvar is your eyes, though he has a tendency to see into darknesses you haven’t asked him to look. “I still think there is farseer blood in you,” you say, hunting for a plate and last night’s bread rolls.

“Intuition and observation, that’s all,” he denies, as usual. “Was it different this time? The dream.”

It hadn’t been, so the question isn’t worth answering. Finding a stale roll, you meticulously split it down the center to fill it with steaming porridge from the cookpot. You do not meet Harvar’s gaze. “What news of the caravan?”

The man pulls his hands into his cloak. “Making good time. They’ll be at the cliffs by dawn.”

“So soon?” That explains his presence this early in the morning. “And Star Clan?”

“Appears they’re busy licking their wounds after their bout with the Imperials on the eastern border. We should only have the wolves to worry over.”

You nod, your left hand touching your ribs absently at the thought of Moro. “Ox,” you call out quietly, and the man pokes his head around the doorway, though you hadn’t actually been certain he would be there. You’re not sure how he does that.

“Sir,” he replies before taking a sip of steaming coffee.

“Rouse the riflemen. We’re to be at the cliffs by dawn. Bring the hand cannons.”

The chief of Iron Town’s guard grimaces a bit. Stepping into the room and striding to the fire, he downs the rest of his brew and hurriedly refills his personal cup with porridge. “You’re staying here, I hope.”

“Of course I’m not staying here,” you say, indignant. Both Ox and Harvar sigh in unison. “It is too early in the morning to lecture me--”

Ox waves a hand in mild irritation, turning on a heel back out the way he came. “Understood. I’ll save it for later, after you’ve broken your legs doing something imbecilic and can’t run from my lecture.”

You open your mouth to retort, but you have nothing to say prepared, and he’s already too far away to hear you by the time you do. Your jaw grudgingly shuts.  In the silence, Harvar quietly clears his throat.

“One more thing,” he says cautiously, choosing his own stale bread and picking at its dry edge. “I realize it was not by your orders, but I… took the liberty of squaring the debts of two more brothel girls.”

You look to the man in surprise. “You know _I_ have no objection. But that is unlike you, to not contact me first.”

Harvar head tilts down as he thoughtfully chews, the shadows under his hood erasing his face from the firelight. “It was a sensitive situation. They’re sisters, both skilled with firearms.”

This makes you pause-- very few in the Territories had experience with rifles of any sort, as you are very careful to keep the weapons your father created in the hands of Iron Town alone. “And how did you learn of them?”

“Well, the elder robbed me of mine and nearly shot my hand off, while the younger pulled this on me--” and he pulls a hefty, compact device from under his cloak, setting it heavily on a table.

You attempt to not choke on your food. “Hells, that’s not one of ours.” You’d believed _you_ had created the smallest wheellock pistol in the Territories, but this weapon’s size and craftsmanship-- despite using crude materials-- makes yours pale by comparison.

This isn’t good news, but the gun’s clever design leaves you excited nonetheless. You set down your forgotten meal, and carefully pick up the pistol. “Who is making these? The Clan? If it’s Arachne, we are in for a great amount of hurt--”

“That is the only one. The little sister made it,” says Harvar.

You raise your head slowly to see if you’ve misheard him. “Say again?”

“She’s fourteen.”

_“What?”_

Harvar bows slightly before walking to the nearest window and unlatching the casement. “I’ll leave the rest in your hands. Shall I return to the caravan?”

You nod, dumbstruck. “We’ll meet you there. I must visit the forge before I leave.”

The other man seems _amused,_ which is yet another bizarre thing to add to the pile. “Best of luck with that,” he says, his cloak already smoking around the edges. His stature shrinks and bleeds into the darkest parts of the room, growing smaller and smaller until he is able to perch on the window sill, his black cloak melding to him and sprouting feathers.

The kindred crow looks back at you and gives the smallest little bird-laugh.

You shake your head with a wry twist of your mouth. “Get going or I’ll use you for target practice,” you threaten, waving the pistol in his direction.

Harvar stretches out his wings and says, “You’re welcome,” before flying out into the dark.

 

_\\\_

 

Before your father was cursed by Asura, he had a habit of buying up brothel ladies looking for other forms of employment. Some have become fine gardeners, others skilled cooks or bootmenders, but the majority of them ended up at the bellows.

Iron Town’s forge is easily the largest building your father has designed, its ever-smoking peak dominating the sky. Inside, two dozen or so workers rotate in shifts to man the massive smelting bellows, keeping the heart of the town lit for days on end. The ladies are rambunctious at any time of day, but they take their work seriously and are loyal in their service to your father and, by extension, you.

“The kid's shown up!” someone calls out before you’ve made it all the way through the massive doorway. The heat is stifling even through the chill of the night, drier than sunburned sands. Near the oversized forge, two groups of women keep up a sturdy rhythm at the bellows, working to feed the fire with massive amounts of air. Several look at you over their shoulders, grinning widely and hooting without a single pause in their work.

“I do wish you wouldn’t call me that,” you reply, loosening your tunic in the heat. “I’ll be twenty-two by first snowfall.” A chorus of giggles sounds from a group of women resting from bellows duty, as if you’ve told a joke.

The de-facto leader of the workers stands and saunters over while mopping sweat from her brow. She wears little more than some thin undergarments and a short robe that could use a great deal of straightening. Though she has no lack of feminine wiles, Blair has been with Iron Town since its construction, and even before then has been the singular female presence in your life for the past thirteen years. No state of undress of a woman’s body fazes you anymore. “You will always be a bumbling kitten to me, no matter your age,” she says. You make a face, but do not comment when she fusses with your bed hair.

More quietly, she asks, “What’s got you up so early, then?”

You consider telling her the dream, but you are on a time schedule so it will have to wait. “Harv dropped in. The caravan is early, and I’m told there will be two new girls joining us. Sisters.” The woman is already smiling before you can finish speaking. “I know you have a lot on your hands,” you say, glancing over at the dozens of women working hard for your father, “but if you could, I would--”

 _“Yes,”_ Blair grins, nearly dancing with excitement. “Yes, I’ll gladly show ‘em the ropes.” She shouts a few orders to the resting group to have arrangements made. “I’m surprised, this is the first time we’ve had new girls since-- ah-- since Sephtis became ill…” She sobers a little, placing a hand on your shoulder. “How is your father doing? That _woman_ won’t let any of us visit.”

“He was sleeping well when I checked earlier.” You place a hand over hers in an attempt to placate Blair’s ever-stewing dislike for your father’s healer. “I’m sure Medusa is keeping his health a priority. She isn’t trying to spurn you.”

The woman sneers. “She can spurn me all she likes-- I worry for the _master._ I have no trust for her and you shouldn’t either.”

You’ve heard this sentiment more times than you can count. “And for what reason do you distrust someone who has only healed countless wounds?” Gently taking her hand off your shoulder, you turn over her wrist, where a fresh scar glistens in the orange forgelight. “And _burns_?”  

Blair slides her arm from your grip, shoulders hitching higher as she pouts. “Call it intuition,” she says loftily, sounding a bit like Harvar. “Always keep one eye open, kitten. Not everyone is what they--”

“Sir.”

You and Blair both turn towards the open doorway, and you notice small flurries of snow have begun to fall. Ox is there, quick breaths frosting in the chill air. He’s brought horses with him. “Watchtower says there’s been a flare. Near the cliffs.”

“I need my armor,” you say without hesitation.

Ox gestures to your horse with a fierce smile-- he’s brought your gear along as well. “The riflemen are nearly ready--”

**_“Thane!”_ **

An ebony blur materializes from the dark sky, colliding sloppily into Ox’s shoulder and tumbling. The guard and Blair both make an effort to catch the crow before he hits the ground. Harvar smokes and shifts to his human form, his dark cloak slick with ice from his quick return.

“What’s happened,” you demand.

Steadied by Ox and Blair, the kindred rips his cowl back and simply snarls, “ _Moro.”_

 

* * *

 

 

**_Maka_ **

_\\\_

 

Claire and Castor emerge from the woods when the moon is high and bright. You are summoned to the weather-worn shrine perched in the tallest tree in the village, and you sit before the twin farseers, the fate they’ve divined for you to be witnessed by the tribe’s council and your father, the chief.

The twins are less than six winters old, but their ears have been touched by the gods, and through them they hear the absolute. In the shrine, they dance, grasping blindly at things unseen. They whisper and chant and growl, swirling around their caretaker and envoy, Kilik, who is seated across from you. When the twins dance, his eyes cloud over, seeing only what they desire him to see.

Kilik looks through you with such pitying sadness on his face that your blood stirs with a rage that is not your own. He folds his dark hands, fingers intertwined as he listens to the whisper-talk from the farseers. You watch as Castor twists his body, posture mimicking the sinuous form of the salamander. When Claire curls her tiny fingers into claws, face ugly with fury, you know she is you, jumping into the air to rend open the demon’s face like a beast.

As they dance, they hum and click little clipped pieces of the old Songs, taught to them by forest spirits because the village knows very few anymore. They whisper in Kilik’s ears until his eyes are milky white, tugging at his ceremony robes and prying open his hands to place there a coal-black stone carefully nested in cloth.

Then, abruptly, the farseers are children once more, complaining of sleepiness and hunger. Castor drapes himself over Kilik’s back with a whine while Claire climbs into his lap and tries to settle for a warm nap. Kilik gradually blinks away his blindness, hushing them. He looks at the stone in his hand, then looks at you with a knowledge behind his eyes that makes you helpless.

He holds up the stone nestled in the cloth for the council to witness. “This is what turned the Great Salamander Asura into a demon. Both this and his eventual madness came from the hands of men.”

You have never seen such a perfectly rounded thing before, but hatred instantly wells up in you at the sight of it, the voices in you hissing stories you don’t want to hear.

Kilik bows his head. “Though your actions have saved us, the gods have told of your exile.”

You are not surprised. You had already steeled your heart for this all afternoon. It still wounds you, though, piercing and acidic like betrayal. Spirit says nothing, as he can speak only for the tribe and not for himself, and you dare not look at him, lest you see him trying not to weep and end up weeping yourself.

Thickly, you ask, “What of the curse?”

Kilik’s eyebrows furrow, but he does not look away from you. “Asura’s mark will spread, consuming you, destroying both the body and mind.”

Ah-- the anger you now feel is wholly yours.

“But,” Kilik says, holding out the stone to you, candlelight glinting off its midnight shine, “the gods have offered a path to you that few may ever travel: go to the Westlands. Learn what has birthed this disaster and, in seeing the truth, you may find a way to contain the demon’s madness.

“Maka, tribe-daughter and first born of Spirit and Suzume, you are hereby exiled,” Kilik says quietly. “May the Brightwinged guide you when you need it most.”

 

\\\\\

 

You cut your hair and leave it on your father’s doorstep. Seeing the bundle of tarnished gold heaped lifelessly on the ground is not something you had ever imagined you would see again.

No one is permitted to watch you go. You are already dead to them, a ghost who has inherited the unfinished tasks of a ruined and vengeful god. Packing up supplies and leaving behind anything that would remind you of home, you don your riding clothes and lead your elk from the stables. He leans a long antler to you to help you climb on his back, and you take one last look at the village you’ve known all your life, eyes falling on the central fire-pit which still glows with faint embers in the night’s breeze.

Someone will come in the morning and stoke it back to life. It won’t be you.

_“Maka!”_

You could recognize that voice anywhere. Tsugumi breaks tradition-- a habit she had doubtlessly picked up from you-- limping conspicuously behind the stables to catch you before you leave. Seeing her pains you, though the thought of what might have happened had you not thrown yourself at Asura pains you more.

“What are you _doing_?” you hiss, yanking the riding cloth that covers your mouth down to your chin. “They’ll have you on fishing duty for months if they see you with me.”

“Then I will catch fish,” she replies, taut, coming up alongside your elk and stroking his side with familiarity. She pulls something from her sash, carefully wrapped in stiff leather. “It’s a sacred thing,” she says, handing the parcel up to you. “Do not look at it here.”

You nod in thanks, tucking the leather carefully into your cloak. You do not trust your voice.

“Stay strong,” Tsugumi urges.

“You as well,” you manage to say, and then, suddenly, “Please look after Papa. We-- I’ve left him all alone!”

She sniffles loudly, but her face is determined for you, and you try your best to memorize it. She says, “I will. Just remember: no matter what happens, you protected _life_. No god or curse will ever change that in you.” She reaches for your hand, and though it is tainted and black like the stone that had driven Asura mad, she takes it in her own.

“I would have joined you without complaint,” she says, and lets you go.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Mifune_ **

\\\

 

The stone only cools when you step foot inside the palace gates.

Angela refuses to show herself. Her scales are a perfect imitation of the worn, corded leather that wraps the hilt of your sword. As you wait to be seen by the Empress, you can faintly see the outline of the little chameleon’s body as she sways gently, like a leaf blown by a breeze. You wonder where she picked that up from, because you hadn’t taught her that.

She does not want to be here. Neither do you, but you’ve run out of options. You were hoping to make it to the Eastlands before winter, but you’re out of supplies and have even less in the way of allies. You can’t feed a growing girl, and neither can you leave her on her own long enough to find work-- not that anyone hires a mercenary who fought on both sides of the war.

You’ve heard talk of the Empress welcoming and granting sanctuary to kindred folk after she had secured the better part of the Territories, but you've worked with the Imperials before, and it was under Arachne’s banner that you helped conquer the Saltkin Islands and found Angela in the first place. You have little trust in anything the woman claims, but you have little trust in _anyone_ this side of the mountains, and it’s been several days since Angela has had a true meal in her stomach.

So you followed the lure of that spirit-bird, the stone bringing you to Aranei Palace. You are grateful that the guards hadn't asked where you got it from-- lying isn’t one of your skills, and you feel the truth would be too outrageous to do you any favors. You and Angela wait in a plush room lit by countless oil lamps, a faint murmur of voices in the next room bouncing off tall, granite pillars.

There is something about the palace that is vaguely offensive, something that puts you on edge and makes you habitually check the shadows that dance in the flickering lamplight. As you eye the cold granite, a lifelessness seems to echo back from it, and you question how a supposed ally of the nature-hearted kindred could have a palace so devoid of life.

“Do not come out until I say,” you murmur.

“Mm.”

“Even if she agrees, do not come out.”

“I know.”

“We cannot tru--”

 _“We can’t trust anyone,”_ she finishes for you. “Men in the ugly masks’re gonna think you’re talking to yourself.”

She has a point, even if she’s giggling about it. A stretch of time slinks by, and you do your best not to doze in the warmth of the room. Though you are alert when a footman silently enters to fetch you for the Empress, you discover with a poorly-hidden start of panic that Angela has truly disappeared when your eyes flit to the hilt of your sword.

If she were to roam the endless halls of this shadowy palace, you’re likely to never see her again--

 _“I am here,”_ she whispers, her clawed foot grasping faintly at your shoulder. You hadn’t felt her climb up there at all. Quiet pride streaks through you at that, but you would like to scold her for worrying you more than anything. You hold your tongue as you follow the footman into what is presumably the throne room. Angela stifles another tiny giggle, her tail curling against the folds of your cloak, but she falls silent as you come to kneel before the Empress.

You are not a small man, but you feel diminished and vulnerable before the throne. There are dangers in every corner, attendants and guards all poised to act on a single gesture from the woman in front of you. Though she wears no crown, her hair is intricately styled, adorned with tiny cabochons like dew on a spider’s web. The Empress gazes upon you for a long moment and then stands from her throne, stepping off the dais to approach. Dark robes drape across her shoulders in a river of pitch, streams of fabric parting as her hands reach for your cowl. You feel Angela’s little feet travel down your back as Arachne pushes the hood off your head.

Her voice simmers, rich. “I have heard of you,” she says, a finger under your chin to tilt your face. “The swordsman with hair the color of straw, loyal to the largest purse. Mercenary.”

You say nothing, as there is nothing to say. Arachne pulls her hand away, moving to glide around you like a predator as you suffer the weight of her examination. You feel Angela on your back like a brand.

“I am told you showed the guards a trinket of mine. This is a troubling thing to me, because I was certain the item in question was in my possession.” She stands before you once more. “ _Giriko,”_ she calls, and a man with hair nearly as light as yours strides out of the dark, wearing a perpetually satisfied smirk on his face. He carries a wooden reliquary the color of blood, which he opens at Arachne’s behest.

The Empress plucks a small stone from the reliquary, creamy white polished to a seamless sheen. She presents this to you, so you cannot mistake the symbol of her empire so delicately carved into its face. “It was a gift, you see. Blessed by Maaba herself, it grants me certain… privileges.” Arachne strokes the stone fondly before replacing it in the red box. “So I am curious, mercenary, as to how two of my Imperial Guard, who have never seen this trinket, could describe it so accurately. Show me.”

You slowly reach inside your cloak, the guards in the room only relaxing when you present the Empress with the stone’s twin in the center of your open palm. From her own robes, she pulls a silken handkerchief and picks up the orb in fascination.

Her voice is warm, though her gaze is pure, bone-breaking winter, pinning you to the granite floor. “Where did this come from, swordsman?”

“A bird came to me in a dream, Empress. When I woke, the stone was in my hand.”

The man with the reliquary audibly scoffs. Arachne arches a brow, but despite any skepticism, there is genuine interest in her words. “If this is true, tell me: what bird is able to do such magic?”

“It was the Brightwinged!”

You tiredly close your eyes. The familiar smell of smoke reaches you as Angela becomes human, still clinging to your back with a hand on either of your shoulders. Defiantly, she says, “She came to Mifune and guided him, just like in the Songs.”

After a murmuring of shock from the guards around the room, you open your eyes to a sight that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably: the corners of the Empress’s mouth turning up in a self-indulgent smile.

Arachne looks down at the duplicate stone in her handkerchief for a moment before gazing at Angela, the gleam in her eyes making your hand itch for your sword. Then she turns that gaze on _you_ , chin raised as she replies, “Did she, now? How very kind of her.”

 

\\\

 

“You would be warmer inside the cloak,” you say, but Angela only curls her spiral of a tail around the horn of the saddle. She hasn’t spoken much to you since your most recent lecture, prompted by having found her stowed away in a damned saddlebag three days into the march.

The lengthy reprimand may have been harsher than she was used to, but a little girl shouldn’t be sneaking away to battle-- especially when the opposing faction actively hunts her kind and eats them for dessert. You had no choice but to keep her with you, unable to turn back this far away from the palace, and you’d prefer her to at least hide in your pocket and out of the biting wind and snow.

You grumble, “Chameleons are not meant for this weather,” but she continues to ignore you, attention caught by whatever is beyond the thick swarm of Imperial soldiers on horseback ahead of you.

There is an inherent mockery, you think, in that the first task Arachne has given you takes you to the far northeast, right at the doorstep to the Eastlands. You can see the low clouds blurring the jagged peaks of the tall mountain pass, dusting everything with a clean layer of snow. Through them is safety; you had originally planned to take Angela there, where the free peoples live on the other side of the mountain range, but now you are bound to the Empire. Again.

The company makes a slow banking turn to the north, riding off the main road and up a well-worn path over a frosted hill. Your mouth settles into a deep frown as Angela unwinds from the saddle and inches her way up the back of your horse’s neck for a better view. You want to lecture her about that as well, but you’re certain it would fall on deaf ears.

Then you and the rest of the company crest the hill, and your breath stills in your chest. Something black as pitch comes into view, marring the horizon. It’s as if a giant hand had simply ripped a strip of the world away. After a long moment, you realize the black scar on the earth is the Dead Path. You had overheard Arachne’s soldiers gossiping about it, but you know with a hollow sickness in your throat that there aren’t any words they could have said to fully prepare you.

A demon has passed through here. You’re told the decay stretches well beyond your sight, from the far western shore to over the eastern mountains. The wind carries the smell of devastation even from this distance, the scent fetid and impure in a way that makes you wince to your bones. As the company approaches, you find the earth scorched to brittle uselessness, trees twisted and skeletal. Even the snow refuses to fall there.

You feel the chameleon crawling up your chest to burrow in your cloak. “It’s cold,” she says plaintively. You grunt in agreement.

During the war, you’ve seen a number of atrocities. As amazed and uneasy the Path makes _you_ , it’s impossible to imagine what it must seem to the young girl. You wonder what kind of horror could spawn a demon capable of this-- how far must a creature be pushed to retaliate with such ruthless destruction, leaving behind only death in its wake?

But you already know, don’t you? The distance for you is hardly any-- it trembles in your cloak pocket, only just shy of the length of your hand.

 

* * *

 

**_Black Star_ **

\\\

 

You hadn’t fully realized what a pain in the ass this mission would be.

 _‘No eyes but yours’_ has created a constraint of massive proportions-- you can’t ask anyone in the Clan what they might know about this mystery book White Star is after. Neither can you ask the common folk in the Clan’s remaining territories, who only turn around and report anything having to do with _beastlings_ directly to your sire. And with your own star on your shoulder, you can’t exactly walk up to the first kindred you come across and expect to get any reliable information, as a mouse will never agree to have a chat with a hawk.

And while you may be on your own for this task, you’re never, unfortunately, _alone._ There’s always a brother or sister breathing down your neck, or an initiate eager to dig up dirt to gain favor with a superior. The best you can manage is to dig around for clues whenever you have a spare minute while your squadmates are occupied.

“The fuck’re you doing in here?”

Your hands pause only briefly before you continue pushing over the remains of a bookcase. Moldy dust swirls from the wreckage, clouding the floor of the littered ivonhall. “Looking for beast trash, what the hell else would I be doing,” you spit back, annoyed that someone as disappointing as _Jasper_ had managed to catch you unawares.

Lurking in the entryway, Carmine’s son flings blood off his shortsword. He’s taller than you by at least three hands, and thoroughly enjoys looking down his beak of a nose at you. “Slinking around more than usual,” he accuses, casually twirling the sword with a whirl of his wrist. He smiles eagerly, lips stained a glossy red-black. “Suspicious.”

You curse under your breath, kicking aside a sloppy pile of rubble and old, unreadable texts. You’re sure he would jump to the moon for the chance to incriminate you in any way possible, always hunting for an opportunity to snap your spine without consequence. It’s a shame you can’t simply tell him about this secret assignment so you’d have the excuse to gut him like a fish, because Carmine would likely notice his only son missing.

And _as_ the son of the second in command, Jasper is outranked by very few-- even if the kid makes a fool look like a scholar. Presently, he’s more than a little wild-eyed, that smile of his more crazed than you’d prefer to deal with in tight quarters. He has taken to eating kindred raw lately, before they’ve even gone cold. There’s a still-steaming spill of blood across his chest.

You gesture to your own face while saying, “You left some on your chin, genius. We’re supposed to bring them back alive this time.”

Jasper pays his mess no heed and steps through the doorway into the ruins, eyes burning with sickening starlight. “I needed somethin’ to tide me over. This pit is nowhere as fun as it used to be-- why’re we tryin’ to hold this place anyway?”

Plainly because, even after being halfway demolished by that salamander demon, Riohdr sits before the only pass through the Spectre Mountains, and whoever held the town reaped the benefits of trade with the Eastlands.

You don’t waste your breath trying to explain this to someone with blood still dripping from his mouth-- you need to find a way to get Jasper out of your hair so you can keep looking for some gods-forsaken book. The other assassin has you on edge, though, still stalking closer through the rubble of the hall and barring your exit. Your hands hover near your sheathed knives. “Does Carmine’s precious son question the will of the Warbringer?”

Jasper gives no indication of hearing you. Without warning, he takes his sword and thoughtlessly slashes through faded, moth-hole-ridden curtains, as if he searches for something in here, too. “I know you think it’s a cheap substitute, but the power is real, Black,” he says, words on the edge of a laugh. Then, with a smile that nearly splits his face apart, he shoves the sword into a heap of crumpled tapestries and garbage. He slowly lifts the point of the blade up and out, falling debris revealing a squirming, tiny creature caught by the neck of its ragged cape. With pleased arrogance, Jasper says, “One taste and nothing can hide from you.”

You almost don’t believe your eyes. It’s a grizzled kindred hare, half transformed, the feathery fur lining the edges of its face going white for the change of seasons. You hadn’t realized its presence at all. The kindred smokes as it shapeshifts, stubby paw-hands growing into human fingers to unlatch its cloak and fall free of the sword. It scurries out of reach, scooping up a ragged bag of belongings in a panic and fleeing for the doorway.

Jasper bounces on his heels, a rumbling chuckle bubbling through his chest as he gives the thing a head start-- he likes to play with his food and give it a sporting chance-- and it’s as you’re sighing in relief to soon have the assassin out of your way that your eyes fall on something familiar bouncing around that half-open sack on the kindred’s back. You recognize the swirling, arcing lines stamped into the black leather cover.

 _That damned kindred has the book your father wants_ , and Jasper has just darted after it with a howl of blood-soaked joy. You scramble after both of them, desperate to save the book before Jasper’s sword spills the hare’s blood all over its mysterious pages.

The cold wind bites your eyes, the smell of blood and smoke stronger outside the ivonhall. You see Jasper disappear around the corner of one of a dozen merchant alleys, and you struggle too much to find your footing in the slog of slush and mud of the street to give chase. Leaping to a vendor’s table, its owner wisely absent since Star Clan’s arrival this morning, you scale weathered posts and icy verandas, dashing across rooflines to catch up with Jasper and his prey.

You get a glimpse of the beastling as it zigs and zags down the alley and through tightly packed wagons, but it’s far easier to track Jasper, who, judging by the flying wreckage, merely plows through all obstacles in his way without a care in the world, deep in the spell of his kinflesh high. You’re gaining on the pair when the kindred makes it to the end of the alleyway and into the outskirts of Riohdr, faced with a wide, open valley with no places to hide and nothing to see but snow and the black gash of the Demon Path. The hare keeps barrelling due west despite everything, Jasper hot on its heels, and that’s when you see Arachne’s banner flying the skies.

Scores of Imperial cavalry crest the hills of Riohdr Valley. You stop short of the alleyway, darting to the shadow of a crumbling building. There’d been no warning, no word of any Aranei movement in the past two weeks-- how did they get here unnoticed? How had they known the Clan would be here in the middle of a kindred run? You try to make a quick headcount: you can’t see around the entire city, but what you can see to the west already has Aranei outnumbering the Clan here six to one. Those aren’t _terrible_ odds-- you aren’t a clan of assassins for nothing-- but caught off-guard with most of the Clan riding on wings made of raw power and bad decisions…

 _“Jasper!”_ you shout, taking a running dive off the building before you can even question your own madness, because hadn’t you been in want of a reason for this moron to die a moment ago? Imperial riders are rushing into town, swords held high, and Carmine’s son still has no clue, having only a hound’s eyes for the hare. Still, you barrel after him, or at least _the book_ , gaining speed and leaping for Jasper’s legs as a cavalryman tries to take a swing for his neck.

The assassin gnashes his foaming teeth, aiming a perfunctory stab near your shoulders that only meets layers of your cloak. _“Out of the way, kinlover,”_ he snarls, kicking you aside with supernatural force. He’s after the hare once more, his determination unyielding. Clutching at your side, you toss a set of bolas as a last resort, the weights at either end of the rope wrapping around Jasper’s feet.

They won’t drop him for long, and more Imperial riders are headed your way, so you push yourself after this damnably _sprightly_ old kindred, hoping to catch it before you have to contend with more angry hooves and swinging swords.

Naturally, the beastling runs directly for the nearest soldier, screeching for help, but you’re nearly upon him-- you need only grab his pack and escape with the book-- and then Jasper tackles both of you, bringing you down in a heap of knives, claws, and teeth in the icy muck.

In the struggle of limbs, you catch brief glimpses of the earth and sky interspersed with an Imperial horse rapidly approaching with a dark-cloaked rider. You need to get out of here, but you have your hands full trying to both grab the kindred and fend off your Clan brother, who has resorted to attacking you and beastling alike.

Though Jasper’s sweeping sword strikes are exaggerated enough to easily deflect with your dagger, the sheer force behind each blow threatens to crumple the bones in your arm. You land a decent knee under his ribs, hissing, “I’m not stealing your kill, you _sard!”_

On a normal day, Jasper would wheeze and search for his breath with a move like that, but he is back in your face faster than you can blink, blood and stars in his smile. He catches you in that briefest opening when your hand twists in the kindred’s ratty tunic, and makes a sword-swing that will take your head off if you don’t throw yourself out of the way. He still manages to land a cut from your ear to your jaw, the razor kiss of it almost unnoticeable until a split-second later, when the wound turns to ice and then fire within the same breath.

That same sweep that grazed you lands more solidly across the kindred hare, Jasper’s sword leaving its own Dead Path through the thing’s midsection. Nothing can live very long with a wound like that, though the wretch _still_ tries to escape, a hand pressed to his red-blooming gut.

Arm raised for the finishing blow, Jasper stands over his prize, steam curling off the ground from the hare’s blood. You think you may have shouted something, your hand poised to throw your dagger, but then the Imperial rider with a cloak like a breathing shadow smoothly glides off his horse and neatly removes Jasper’s sword arm before his feet touch the ground.

Howling like the northern winds, your Clan brother spins away. The rider strides to the fallen kindred, guarding him as he poises his sword for you.

Before you can finish cursing every god in the heavens, the cloaked figure advances. He is _swift_ , far more disciplined than any of the Clan save, perhaps, your sire, and under other circumstances you would enjoy having such an opponent.

No, that’s a lie. Even now your blood is singing, a grin steadily growing across your face wide enough to rival even Jasper’s.

 _This_ is the strength you desire, this pinpointed, precise show of skill in which every strike is meant for death. “Who are you, Imperial?” you find yourself asking, throwing caltrops at his feet and dancing away from another whistle-quick slash from his sword. “Arachne has never sent _talented_ minions before!”

The soldier’s voice is toneless and, maddeningly, not short of breath whatsoever. “I am no Imperial,” he says, easily strafing around the spikes underfoot. “Lay down your weapons and you will be spared.”

You laugh outright at that. “It’s true you’re not one of that wench’s soldiers-- they never let the enemy live.” You make a swipe at his cowl, desiring to see the face of one who can spout such ridiculousness and expect you to believe it. You get a healthy cut across your shoulder for the effort, but you manage to reveal him, straw hair spilling off the man’s head and thin, unwavering eyes reading your next move.

He dashes forward, a flurry of strikes keeping you on defense. Distantly, you hear the high squeal of clashing swords from the city behind you, your squad caught between struggling prisoners and mounted cavalry. You need to end this bout quickly while you still can.

“Are you sure you’re not Arachne’s concubine?” you taunt, edging closer to the bleeding kindred when the swordsman frowns. “I hear she fancies blondes--” you smile and turn out your last set of bolas. Though he sees it coming, catching them with the tip of his sword and tossing them away, it buys you the barest moment to dash for the book.

Except Jasper is already there, one-armed and ridden with madness. He has the hare by the neck, holding it like a trophy and crushing the thing’s throat in his remaining hand. You do not have time for this insanity-- he can have the wretch for all you care-- so before the warrior can run you through with his sword, you reach out for the kindred’s bloodstained bag.

Like a hawk, something flies before your eyes too quickly for you to truly see. Suddenly the hare is on the ground, sprawled in the muck among what had formerly been Jasper’s limbs until a moment ago. The rest of the assassin is a dozen paces away, torso smoking from ...whatever the hell just happened.

Dumbstruck, you pull back your outstretched hand. There’s a glimmer of metal in the corner of your vision; the straw-haired swordsman is there. You whip up your dagger to meet his strike, but you realize it’s not coming for you-- the man attempts to fend off a twisting, chittering thing of red and black, a half-moon of magic shrieking against the man’s sword. Teeth grit, he only just manages to deflect the shadowy blade, sending it off at a terrifying angle a hair’s breadth from your face. As you somersault away, you catch a glimpse of what had thrown the magic in the first place.

Truthfully, your first thought is _‘demon’._

A strange warrior astride a black beast with long, pointed horns rides out of Riohdr. Imperials fall at his feet as he passes, their heads rolling across the ground. He howls in a tongue you don’t know, his cry so massive it nearly shakes the eyes from your sockets. Shadows curl along the warrior’s arms, twisting and growing into more of those red and black sickles, and then those blades leave his hands, spinning towards _you._

The first one shears one of your daggers cleanly from its hilt. The second blade you dodge, the din of a hundred birds screeching past and rendering the bottom third of your cloak to nothing as you attempt to put as much distance between you and that galloping beast as possible. You manage to deflect the third blade with your remaining dagger, but not without the metal melting and twisting as if crushed by the hand of a god.

Forget the book-- you need cover. You hear another blood-boiling roar as you sprint around, giving the warrior a massive berth to flee back into Riohdr. Smokey sickles fly by, but you manage to hurdle over the bodies lining the street and slip into a narrow alcove of magic-scorched buildings.

When the attacks sound like they’re being directed elsewhere, you risk a quick glance around the corner of the building. You see the warrior leap off his mount and decimate a dozen Imperial riders in a blink. Only the blonde swordsman remains standing, but he’s down on one knee, weary and at odds with a tumult of those nightmarish scythe blades. It’s a pity to see him go. He was strong-- stronger than you, even-- and now you’ll never know how he gained such skill. You carefully lean out of the alcove to watch the killing blow, the warrior conjuring a blade so filled with darkness it seems to eat the very sky.

The swordsman does not attempt to block the demon warrior when he rears the blade down in a mighty arc. Yet, at the last moment, the warrior _hesitates_. You nearly fall from your hiding place to see what has saved the blonde man’s life, but you are too far away to see anything save how the rampaging warrior seems to diminish, his phantom blades disappearing with a loud thunderclap.

Surveying the carnage around him, the warrior stumbles backward, tripping over scattered limbs. And then, to your supreme chagrin, that blasted asshole gathers the dying kindred hare with him up on the back of his horned mount and _flees._

 

\\\

 

A few miles outside of Riohdr, the hare finally bleeds out. You watch (from a _safe_ distance, you hope), as the strange warrior reverently dismounts his even stranger beast and begins digging a grave off the side of the Old Eibon Road. You have never known anyone who would take the time to bury a kindred-- carrion birds and other things exist for that-- and especially not with the soil nearly frozen over. The warrior murmurs something that might be a prayer in that language you’ve never heard.

As soon as he rides away, you hurriedly dig up the grave, fingers going numb until you find the book. It's still warm from body heat as you brush clay from its cover. The spine cracks as you take a peek inside, and it is as you’d suspected: it’s an old tome filled to the brim with kindred lore and Songs in a script you can’t read. Knowing White Star, he doubtlessly has some plan to use this to further strengthen and control his hold around the Clan and their addiction, but you can’t fathom what it might be. Maybe a better way to cook beastlings.

With the book finally in your possession, you now have a moment to tend to your own wounds. The blood down the side of your face has begun to itch, and when you check your warped reflection in your remaining dagger, you can already tell the top of your left ear is hanging on only as a formality. You’ll have to remove it later. For now, you need to address the arm that the swordsman carved up.

Neatly bisected across the middle, the Clan tattoo on your right shoulder is gaping open enough that you should attempt to stitch it up with your meager supplies. You pack it with snow to numb it before doing a shoddy job sewing it shut. It’s not the worst wound you’ve ever received, though it doesn’t feel great, either. You wrap it up and leave it be.

Now you can fully address your present dilemma: Star Clan has suddenly and abruptly lost its hold on Riohdr, and you have no idea if any others of your squad made it out alive. Carmine’s son is dead, but you are not, and the Warbringer’s right hand is not going to enjoy your return whatsoever -- especially when all you have to show for your survival is a book _which you can’t show in the first place._ Not to mention White Star’s general fury at having lost the city, a score of his contingent, and dessert.

You think, perhaps, that you should take the long way home. You’re low on supplies, and walking into the arms of the Clan unprepared is foolish on a _good_ day. That demon warrior had continued west on the road, and you decide following him to town is as good a diversion as any-- he has strength that you’re certain no one living has ever seen, and that is worth some investigating. You want to know how a man can become so powerful, how to move quickly enough to be a mere blur, how to throw one’s manifest rage and harvest your enemies like wheat.

It’s a task to keep up with him over an extended distance, though. You’re on foot and he’s on that bizarre elk with legs _and_ horns both as long as you are tall. Luckily the beast is easy to track, as no horse has a print like a deer, and the warrior himself occasionally leaves behind mutilated traces of his passing, such as a pair of highwaymen who had clearly attempted to rob the wrong man.

Three days of travel and depleting your supplies finds you in the heart of the Western Territories, and you catch sight of the warrior again in the crossroads town of Kiarr.

Though the town is caught equally between Clan and Aranei territories, Kiarr has a tendency to remain more or less at peace out of sheer force of will. Disrupting its ever-shifting flux of trade would be detrimental to both sides. It’s not a friendly environment by any means, but heads typically don’t roll between vendor carts here like they do in other contested areas.

That being said, you’re a lot closer to Empress’s dominion than you’d like. Word of the latest slaughter at Riodhr doesn’t appear to have reached here yet, and you feel it wise to not be around when it does. As neutral as Kiarr is, it’s still crawling with Imperials who guard the fancy goods out of Arachne’s southern cities. With your right arm still injured and most of your weapons lost in the bloody muck back east, you do not wish to be caught with your pants down.

Thanks to Jasper, your shredded cloak doesn’t do much in the way of covering your head, so you glide past a shop stall and relieve the vendor of one of his darker cloaks, fur-lined and with a woolen weft. Now as common as anyone else in town (which you are unaccustomed to-- normally you would announce your presence proudly and press for discounted goods with a flash of your tattoo), you resume your hunt for the warrior. He’s easy enough to pick out of the crowd-- no one wears fabrics that hue this side of the mountains-- and you find the man attempting to purchase a small roll of linen bandaging along with a stout stack of other provisions, though the shop vendor is making a noisy fuss about it.

“S _hiri_ , not having,” the warrior says, stumbling over the pronunciation of the copper coin. His voice is disarmingly mild and nothing like the hoarse roar you heard back in Riohdr when he butchered Jasper. “Having--” and he says a twisting word you’ve never heard, casually gesturing to a walnut-sized cluster of translucent quartz laced with ribbons of raw gold like it is only vaguely as valuable as a handful of chicken eggs.

Your mouth falls open. Both of these people must be fools. As you try to stifle your first instinct, which is to snatch the gold and _run_ , you watch as the vendor picks up the cluster with a frown that clearly speaks of her ignorance of the bauble’s worth. “What kinshit is this?” she complains, voice like a shrill rooster. You somewhat hope the warrior loses his temper and levels the stall just so you can see those phantom blades again, but he is as stoic as the dead behind his mask and cowl. “If you don’t have the money, we don’t have a deal.”

The shopkeeper continues ranting with increasing volume, gathering a nosey audience, and the warrior takes an awkward step back, hands held up in harmlessness. Then you watch him do something that nearly makes you choke: in the middle of crowded Kiarr, he flips his gloved palms face up in offering, performing the sweeping bow of the _kindred._

  
\\\


	3. beasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  

**_Thane_ **

\\\

 The snow is icy needles as you race up the mountain, your horse’s breath a constant cloud from her nostrils. Hooves pound the earth, guards and riflemen turning the final bend to reach the breakneck edge of Raskogr Cliff. The road is hardly more than a slippery path carved in the rock face, and when the moon slices between freezing clouds, its faint light reveals chaos strewn along the hairpin turns below.

Wagons are overturned, oxen and mules throwing terror-fits. Your people are scattered and shouting in the swirling snow, and you see a white streak the size of four grown men dart across the rocky cliffside. It is Wes, Moro’s wolven trickster of a son, with his human brother who calls himself Soul Eater astride his back.

The two of them advance on a heavy food wagon and dart in like lightning, Soul leaping off the wolf god’s back and thrusting his spear into the wagon’s side. He clings to the weapon and cleanly flips into the cart, bringing out a bone dagger to fend off those who might thwart him. The scant passengers put up little fight, instead shrieking at the sight of his fanged headpiece-- the split skull of a wolf-- and his vicious face beneath it painted with streaks the color of blood. The passengers stumble over each other to jump off the sides of the wagon to safety.

You shout orders to Ox, who then commands the guard to gather and defend the scattered people from Wes’s snapping jaws while you break away from the soldiers, drawing your sword and urging your mare towards Soul Eater.

“Resorting to petty thievery, beast prince?” you call out, leaning off your horse to roll into the wagon and aim a kick to his legs that he avoids easily. The man in wolf furs quickly grabs anything he can get his hands on and shoves it into a leather sack.

“We will claim what is rightfully ours,” he replies, gruff. He cinches the bag shut before fending off your sword strike with his dagger. “Sephtis has ruined much of the forest, so we now take our payment.”

“Paym--” You’re forced to dodge his singing blade, your ribs protesting. “Payment is a _human_ concept,” you remind him.

Soul wears a feral grin. “The Nightwalker has been balancing the scales since long before you were ever a _thought._ It is humans who imitate the gods,” he boasts just before you manage to knock him off balance with the flat of your sword. He falls backwards over the wagon’s edge, but not before taking you with him.

The landing is graceless, your throbbing ribs leaving you winded. Soul rolls down the steep slope of the road before skidding back onto his feet with an arm out to support his bag of spoils. “Mother bruised you well, I am certain!” He points his dagger towards you, the feathers and bones on the hilt whipping frantically in the winter storm. “Do not provoke me or I shall finish the job,” he declares, twirling the blade with a flourish before sheathing it and dashing to the wagon to retrieve his spear.

The sharp crack of gunfire bounces off the cliff, your riflemen attempting to shoot the evasive Wes. You heave yourself off the snow-covered ground, narrowly dodging a loose and kicking mule as you dart after Soul Eater. He barely manages to wrench his weapon out of the wagon and parry your strike in time, though you hadn’t expected otherwise.

Narrow-eyed, he says, “What did I _just_  --”

“I have a home with many hungry people to feed.” You ignore the screaming of your ribs to pressure the man into a slow retreat, your blade cracking against his polearm, forcing him to draw the spear in and fight in closer range. “I will not stand aside and allow y--”

 ** _“It’s going over,”_** someone shrieks, and you can hear it: a heavy supply wagon up the cliff path crunching through loose gravel and wet snow, its pair of oxen bellowing in fear as they slip closer to the ledge. Then you spot the figure of a young girl trying to climb out of the wagon to safety.

You make a furious hiss of frustration at Soul, disengaging with a rough shove so you can sprint to the teetering wagon. You’re beaten to the struggling oxen by the smoke-winged blur of Harvar, only halfway human in his haste to grab the oxen's harnesses. His feet skid in the snow as he pulls, his cloak a smudge of feathers that beats for any extra strength to urge the animals back on the road. You hastily sheathe your sword and go for the wild-eyed girl in the cart, helping her jump from the near-vertical wagon into your waiting hands. She’s a strong, stout thing, and her weight brings you both to the ground in a slippery heap. She’s shouting into the wind and you can’t understand what she’s saying, but you do see _another_ young woman struggling to climb out the of the tilting wagon.

Ox has made it to your side, reaching out with his halberd for the woman to grab, and then you hear the bone-splitting howl break through the storm.

There is Moro, standing proud at the top of Raskogr. With a drop of your gut, it occurs to you that Wes’s dogged threatening of the caravan and Soul’s performance-like flip into a wagon had all been a diversion, because you had forgotten about the worst of this pack. Her white fur blends into the mess of the winter storm as she leaps off the cliff directly for you.

She’s after the oxen, a hearty meal even for her, but those beasts are the only things keeping the cart from tumbling down the cliff with a woman still inside. You have a barefooted girl tucked against you and no room for thought. Your hand flies to your waist and closes around the heavy wheel-lock pistol Harvar had left you, drawing it and aiming at Moro’s heart.

The gun kicks so hard you feel something in your wrist buckle and snap. Moro twists and contorts mid-air, landing heavily on the slipping wagon.

Dawn struggles to break through the first snow of your twenty-second year, the storm whirling so thickly you nearly miss the shocked eyes of the woman in the cart as she, the oxen, and Moro all plummet out of sight.

 

\\\

 

You stand with the rest of the wounded near the forge, trying to force some warmth back into your frozen toes. Unfortunately, the warmer you get, the less you can ignore the pain in your wrist-- especially with the young girl from the wagon clamping her hand around it and imploring you to do something about her sister. Ox had tried to pry her off you, but he got bashed in the chin by Patricia’s hard head and now holds a lump of snow to his jaw.

She wails, _“_ Why are you standing here? Why hasn’t anyone gone to look for her? _**Do something!”**_

“Clearly he cannot,” Harvar says from Ox’s padded shoulder armor, feathers fluffed. “To send anyone out in that storm would be a death sentence.”

Once Patricia realizes who is speaking, she whirls away from you and immediately takes a swing for the kindred crow, though she’s too short to reach him. “You lying beastling!” she howls, Ox hastily sidestepping out of the way.

As she shouts insults at Harvar, Medusa takes the brief moment to sneak into the space the girl had vacated, examining your wrist. She raises a golden eyebrow at you. “Set it quickly,” you murmur through gritted teeth, “and tend to the others. I’ll take care of the re-- ** _urgh.”_**

“I’ll make another jar of salve for you,” she says breezily before sweeping off to her next patient. You clutch your wrist in your hand, attempting to fill your thoughts with calm, pleasant things, and finding absolutely none. Your desire for a bed and a week’s worth of sleep is strong, but a bird, a teenaged girl, and your chief of guard are all blocking the doorway, and by the deadpan look on Ox’s face, he hadn’t missed your thirty-second doctor visit.

“May the Warbringer _roast you on a spit_ ,” Patricia carries on, still attempting to knock Harvar to the ground. Finally annoyed with her persistence, Ox grabs her by the collar of her tunic and holds her at bay, which only makes her angrier. “I s’pose mentioning _giant wolf gods_ slipped your bird brain? You snake with wings, you didn’t say anything about _them!_ ”

 _“Snake?”_ Harvar spits back, indignant. He shifts into a man, though you notice he has gone pale and panting with the effort. “Of course I said nothing to you-- you are still a child. I told your sister of the dangers. She understood _fully_ , and agreed nonetheless.”

The girl’s fury softens around the edges for a few heaving breaths before it suddenly turns to despair. Her arms wrap around herself, eyelashes wet and stuck together. “It shoulda been _me,”_ she says, voice hoarse. “She made me go first!”

You step forward, your good hand outstretched to lay on her shoulder, but, as quickly as it had gone, her anger flares again in an instant, her head whipping up with steel in her eyes. “I will find her.”

Luckily, Blair has chosen this moment to intervene, grabbing the girl and wrapping a blanket around her before she can take so much as a step. “You mustn’t! If your sis makes it back and you aren’t here, then where’ll we be?” The woman’s golden eyes flit to yours with purpose as she says, “We need to make a bed ready for her, because the young master will send out a search party the moment the storm eases.”

Patricia looks at you over her shoulder, her face a startling, young reflection of her sister’s, which you can still easily see falling beyond the edge of Raskogr. You nod without hesitation. “Goes without saying.”

Stone-faced, she says, “I’m going with them.”

 _“Absolutely not,”_ you, Blair, Harvar, and Ox all say in unison, which makes her hiss and toss her head.

“And give me my gun back!” she yowls as Blair leads her away. “At least I can shoot it without _breaking my arm!”_

You have nothing to say to this. When you glance at Ox and Harvar, it appears they have plenty enough to say in your stead. Harvar speaks first, his voice a careful kind of quiet that makes you grimace. “Thane, when I left that firearm to you, it was not so you could re--”

 **“I know,”** you bite out, wrapping your hand angrily around your throbbing wrist. “You needn’t say it, I already know what you’re thinking.”

“Well I don’t,” says Ox, face pinched with frustration. He nods his bruising chin at your injury. “ _You_ need to wrap that, and _you--_ ” he snarls at Harvar, “need to sit the hell down, and _I’m_ hungry enough to eat those damned beasts Moro took with her. Let’s go.” The last is said as a command, and both you and Harvar have nothing left in you to do anything other than follow the the man to the kitchens.

The trek through the cold wind saps any heat you might have gathered from the forge. Numbly sitting on a bench at the table, you do not know how long you sit and shiver before you find yourself staring into the glossy surface of a mug of tea. It reminds you of your father, gunfire echoing in your ears on endless repeat.

Across from you, Harvar leans tiredly on the table with Ox to his right, who angrily eats any and every bit of food he can get his hands on. Mouth full, the guard accuses, “How many times have you shifted today?”

The man next to him lifts his head for a moment, deep in thought. He sighs and gives the barest shrug.

“Too many,” Ox declares with a sniff.

You push your tea across the table to Harvar. “You were both man and bird at one point,” you say, recalling the kindred with arms _and_ wings on the cliff. “Even I know the spirit isn’t meant to be caught between like that.”

He’s too weary to make his usual wry frown. “It is difficult but not impossible. I did what needed to be done.” Harvar regards the tea and finally musters the effort to pick it up. “Not that I did any good,” he sighs before taking a sip.

Your laugh is humorless. “The only failure is mine. You are not the one who shot a god today,” you say, watching as Harvar flinches at what you know is an open wound, and one you have made.

Ox washes his meal down with coffee. “Not sure you realize it, Thane, but you did technically save our lives.”

The unspoken ‘but at what cost’ hangs so heavily over the table that none of you bother to say it aloud.

“Think she’s alive?” you ask.

Your chief of guard takes a knife from his belt and carves a large hunk of cheese off a wheel. He offers this to you, saying, “I suppose we’ll find out when another angry god turns up on our doorstep.”

“I would rather it not be while we’re still repairing the damage from the last one,” you reply, accepting the food even if you aren’t eager to eat much of anything right now. “But I meant the woman, not the wolf.”

Harvar also takes Ox’s next offering, though he only looks at it a few seconds before placing it on the table. He slowly straightens, wearily pushing his shoulders back and moving to stand from the bench. “I will look for her. I am faster than any rider, and I’m the one who brought her here in the first place.”

“You will not,” says Ox, tugging the kindred back to the table by his cloak. “The girl was right to call you bird-brained.”

“You’re whiter than the wolf right now,” you add, guilt twisting your gut. “Get some rest. _Both_ of you. We’ll find what’s left of the caravan when the storm passes.” After forcing down a few bites of cheese, you dismiss yourself with the excuse of needing to mend your wrist.

In truth, there are a great many things you must mend. In an egregious echo of your father, you have shot a _god_ , and if the Nightwalker has taken that young woman’s life in payment for your mistake, her blood is on your hands, as well.

 

* * *

 

**_Maka_ **

\\\

The fine hairs on the back of your neck raise the moment you bow, the crowd in the street abruptly silent before a low murmur stirs like a wind through the onlookers. You look up hurriedly, hoping it was not your actions that had caused this, but no one will meet your eyes, mouths hidden behind raised hands.

Perhaps they have already heard of you: the creature in strange clothes who rips people to shreds when angered. You should take your leave and try to find supplies in some other town, but finding this one had been a miracle with your outdated map. A quick glance to your left reveals a movement behind the crowd, of armed soldiers who could very well see you as a threat.

Crona paws at the earth behind you, his whoosh of breath at your shoulder like a nervous mutter. You think he has the right idea. You reach forward to take back the small bit of loreheart you had placed on the table, but before you grab it, another hand closes around the stone.

A stranger draped with dark fabric holds the loreheart up for closer inspection, light glinting off the metal ribbons embedded inside. Your hand discreetly moves to the dagger under your thick cloak-- you don’t know what this person wants, but if they are about to steal from you, you will not stand silently, even if the item in question may be worthless in this city.

To your surprise, the tradeswoman who had been shouting at you too quickly for you to understand has quickly become docile, head inclined to the stranger at your side. You give the figure a more critical glance: by the looks of the calluses lining those scarred fingers, they favor the right arm for a recent injury. A supply bag with what looks to be a book inside. No visible weapons. A scholar, perhaps?

“How can I help you, sir,” the woman says, voice squeaking in her haste to sound respectful. She then glances fretfully to you, as if _you_ are in some danger from an apparent man who is hardly taller than you are.

The stranger presents the loreheart to the woman’s face at a distance you would personally deem too close, though she does nothing but shiver among her trade wares, rapidly blinking. “ _This_ ,” he says, rolling the jagged stone between his rough fingers, “would pay for all the junk in your cart, and your next month of meals, besides. Haven’t you seen gold before?”

When the man places the stone back on the table, the tradeswoman hurriedly snatches it up, examining it with wide eyes. Suddenly, all the items you had intended to purchase are shoved into your arms, the stranger swiftly adding several other things you had not asked for to the pile. You attempt to juggle these and Crona’s reins without dropping anything, and then the man’s hand is on your shoulder, fingers digging in tightly enough to amend your first impression of him.

Under his breath, he says for only your ears, “You are one _hell_ of an idiot. _Walk.”_

Your first instinct, apart from slicing this improper oaf’s arm off, is to loudly protest his rough-handling, but he has helped you buy your supplies _and_ removed you from a situation you think could have quickly gone awry, so you hold your tongue. He hauls you along tightly-packed streets, twisting and turning down alleys enough to make you disoriented, and by the time you reach the very outskirts of town, what little thankfulness you had for his assistance has decidedly run out.

Grinding your teeth under your mask, you try to jerk out of his grasp, but his grip is that of a man thrice his size. You call him several choice words, though you belatedly realize he doesn’t understand any of them, which only makes you angrier. You spit what little you know of Common Tongue. “ _Unhanding me, Westlander!”_

His cowled head tilts to the side, but he does eventually release you. “Look, ‘Eastlander’, the Westlands don’t exist anymore. We’re the Territories now.” He shoots a glance over his shoulder and you see an angry red wound on his jaw. He begins taking the topmost items of the supplies in your hands-- sharp metal stars and other strange tools you’ve never seen before-- and shoves them in his bag. “Next point: we’re being followed by Imperials _and_ Clan lackeys, and I bet they wanna see how much more of that raw gold you have tucked away...among other things.” He gives you a rough glare for reasons you can’t understand. “We need to leave town.”

You don’t grasp everything he says, but you do see some unfriendly faces moving along the shadows of the alleyway behind you, and ‘leave town’ makes well enough sense. You store your goods in your saddlebags and mount your elk, though you hesitate at leaving the wounded stranger behind, who seems intent on making himself just as scarce.

“ _Lack-ees_ slow,” you offer, scooting forward on Crona’s back and gesturing behind you.

The man raises an eyebrow and suddenly laughs. “I don’t need your weird beast. I carry my own weight.” And then, without warning, he takes off down the road at an astonishing sprint. “See if you can keep pace, _Eastlander!”_ he calls.

 

\\\

 

Your hands have become a stranger’s. You hold them near the fire, but you can’t feel the flames at all; the sensation of temperature is lost to the cursed parts of your arms, your fingers deadened and black under your gloves.

The man from Kiarr had led you to a ruined building, which was hardly more than a north-facing wall with some scattered beams and moldy hay. You suppose it had been some kind of stable once. It blocks the winds of the oncoming winter storm well enough at least, and you lean back against Crona’s warm belly, who has settled in for the night next to you.

On the other side of the fire, the dark-cloaked man makes disgusted faces in your direction, even while diligently stirring the contents of your tiny cook pot with the practiced movements of one who prepares his own meals regularly. You still can not determine if he wants nothing to do with you or is actually trying to help.

There are many questions you’d like to ask, but you don’t know how to say most of them. You venture with the easiest first, though you aren’t sure he will oblige you in answering.

“What is name?”

With one look, it’s clear he doesn’t want to tell you. He grabs your one bowl and fills it with a stew rich with roots and the rabbit he had been very proud to catch when you made camp. As he passes the bowl to you, he grudgingly says, “Blade.”

Eyebrows pinched together, you hesitate in taking the bowl. “Is like knife?” you ask, confused, but he shakes the bowl at you impatiently until you take it.

He huffs at you. “...Yeah. Like a knife.” He rubs at the line on his face without thinking; winces when he finds it painful. “My father forges weapons,” he says, digging around in his bag. “Guess he wanted to name his kids with a theme.”

You slowly nod, though you do not know what a theme is. “Maka,” you say.

Blade pauses while dipping a chipped cup he had procured from his bag into the stew. “What?”

“Is name. Maka.”

“Oh. Uh. Cheers, I guess,” he says with that disturbed frown, holding the cup higher as if in tribute to you before bringing it to his lips. You awkwardly imitate the gesture with your bowl.

He doesn’t ask, but you supply an explanation anyway. “’Maka’ is meaning knife also.” You bring your hand to your chin, pulling down your mask to eat as you try to explain your name in Common. “Knife with curve, cutting... grass? No, erm--” You set your bowl in the hay and reach for your dagger-- you think you can probably use it to imitate a scythe during harvest-- but before you can bring it out, you realize Blade’s face is ridden with absolute horror.

“What,” you say carefully, worried that moving for your weapon has sent the wrong message.

His finger points at you in accusation. “You-- are you a _woman?”_

You blink. You think, perhaps, you have made camp with a profoundly stupid person. “Yes?”

Blade places his hand over his face and groans. “Of course you are. I’ve been wrong about everything else, why not?” His hand falls away and he stares at you with narrowed eyes. Voice low, he asks, “And you’re kindred too?”

You give up bringing out your knife. The steam from the stew warms your cold nose, so you hold the bowl closer to your face. “Word not knowing, ‘kin-durid’.’

“Right.” He sighs, frustrated. “Magic beasts? They… they’re animals that turn to smoke and look like people.”

“Ah--” you blurt, suddenly understanding. You tuck ‘kindred’ away into your memory, pleased at having learned something new. “You are meaning shape change? Like woman becoming bird--” Your excitement abruptly dies, reminded of your mother. She hadn’t been a changeling, exactly, but it was the first example that came to you.

When he nods, frown firmly in place, you reply, “No. I not.”

It’s Blade’s turn to furrow his brows, scrutinizing you while chewing the vegetables in his stew. “Guess you couldn’t be. Kindred never fight, only flee.” He relaxes back in the straw momentarily before a thought crosses his face and he sits back up with haste. “But why did you do that, at Kiarr? You nearly asked for an execution-- dozens of people saw it and I’m sure by now both Arachne _and_ White Star know y--”

You shake your head, desperately holding up a hand. “Please. Ecks-eh-what?”

“When you-- _urgh.”_ Crona twitches, startled, when the man suddenly stands. Blade glances over either shoulder, checking for an audience before he awkwardly performs the Bloodless Bow while still holding his stew, a display commonly meant to show humility and respect. He looks at you expectantly, blue eyes demanding an explanation while still bowed over. _“This,”_ he says, but all you manage to do is choke on a laugh because he’s done it so poorly.

Your own voice stuns you-- you have not had a desire to laugh in weeks. You’d thought that gone, lost to you like the warmth of fire in your hands. A smile plays on the edges of your lips, your heart twisting with the knowledge that there is still that much more of you left to be taken away.

Blade scowls at you, standing straight. “Well?”

“You are like child,” you chuckle again. _“Bad.”_

He is not amused. “It _should_ be bad! Doing that in front of people is a good way to die.”

Surely he is mistaken! Yet the way the crowd had reacted to you in Kiarr lends credence to his argument, and you don’t like how that bodes. Your smile falls away. “No. Is showing peace, is not for killing.”

Somehow, the man looks even more frustrated with you than before, turning a circle in place as if wanting to shout at anyone who might listen. “How did you make it this far across the damned continent without realizing-- listen. Only the kindred bow like you bow, Eastlander. And the kindred are _hunted_ here. Understand?”

Crona shifts uncomfortably, feeling your body coil and tense. “A-again, saying,” you request, pinning your eyes on the man and carefully watching his mouth.

Very slowly, he repeats exactly what you thought you heard. “Kindred. Are hunted. You know who Arachne is?”

Your mouth has gone dry. “Empress,” you hoarsely say, hands clenching around your bowl and feeling nothing of its warmth.

“Right. She collects them-- keeps the beasts like pets. And Star Clan,” he says, one hand absently holding his shoulder, “ _eats_ them.”

You bolt to your feet, Crona snorting and stumbling to his as well. Your heart pounds in your ears, the bowl of stew falling from your hands to spill across the ground. **“Eat.”**

Blade’s face is grim. He holds out his cup of stew in emphasis. “Yes. My-- the Warbringer has called for all kindred to be delivered to him. _That_ is why you must not bow like you did in Kiarr. They will think you are kindred, and they will come for you.”

“They are _eating **people**?”_ The very idea makes you sick to your stomach. Small wonder the Westlands-- no, the _Territories_ \-- had driven Asura mad, with these monstrous humans killing and feasting on _changelings._ “Why!?”

“Eating kindred gives you power,” he says easily, though his eyes do not look at ease whatsoever. The man has settled into a subtly smaller stance, balancing his weight in a way that a panther might before striking. You do not miss the slight movement of his left hand inching closer to the new knife at his waist-- he thinks that _you_ are the threat here, that you somehow pose more danger than man-eating monsters!

Ghosts whisper under your skin with your rage. _Show him the price of power,_ they tell you sweetly. _Raze his bones until nothing remains._

“Besides, it’s not like they’re... _people_ ,” he says, trying to placate you. “Their true shapes are beasts.”

Black shadows creep in the edges of your vision, the campfire little more than a distant star in an irrelevant sky. The voice that crawls out your throat does not belong to you, and it speaks the Common Tongue with more skill than you’ve ever possessed.

“It is not the shape that makes a beast.”

The curse is pouring through you again, using your rage as a doorway to take your body hostage. It is a struggle to summon the strength to fight it back, because there is a resignation in you, a despair of the heart that is echoed, matched by the voices eating you from the inside.

You do not wish to hurt anyone, but haven’t you always wanted to, just a little? Haven’t you wanted to exact revenge on those who abuse life?

And as you think this, an arrow sails in the dark and pierces through your right hand. You lift up your palm, your blood pooling inside your glove and dribbling down your arm, but your hands are a stranger’s-- when you close your fist around the arrowhead, you feel nothing at all.

You smile.

 

* * *

 

**_Mifune_ **

\\\

Angela waits for you to pop your shoulder back into its rightful place before taking your hand and leading both you and your horse away. You have yet to decide if you are in the thrall of some illusion.

When the girl threw her body in the path of that unholy blade, you heart had stopped, and you think it’s likely it never started up again. It could be that these are your dreaming death throes, and the gods have seen fit to grant you the feeling of Angela’s hand in yours, leading you off the battlefield to wherever it is slain warriors go.

The vision persists, as do the aches in your weary body. You and the girl had somehow been spared by that tribeswoman and you can’t begin to fathom _why._ The only thing you are certain of is you are getting far too old for this.

As you walk past the limbless body of that Star Clan assassin, you are surprised to see his chest rising and falling. The woman’s curse-magic had burned his wounds shut, and so he lies groaning in the freezing mud. Angela stops short, and you are too drained to keep pulling her along in some futile effort to spare her the gory consequences of battle.

She regards the helpless cannibal, her fingers clenching around yours. “Mifune,” she says, calming the nervous horse behind her with only a glance of icy blue eyes. Her voice is tiny in the chill of winter. “Kill him?”

A swift death for the assassin will be a mercy compared to being found later by wild dogs or even his own clansmen. You close your eyes for a long moment. You are reluctant to slay anyone in front of the girl, but after today you suppose protecting her from this part of you had always been a fool’s errand.

Your sword is difficult to draw from its scabbard-- those demonic scythes warped the strong, Iron Town-forged blade into a hideous, twisted mess. It still has enough of an edge, thankfully, to slice through the man’s neck.

The horse shies at the hot blood steaming along the frosted ground, but Angela does not calm the beast this time. You catch a glimpse of her face as she regards the dead man, a weight closing around your chest when you realize what had prompted her request had not stemmed from pity or mercy at all.

It’s the first time the kindred has ever asked you to perform violence.

 

\\\

 

As the both of you wait in the ever-familiar antechamber just outside the throne room, you hear a Song. Your hand pauses in its absent combing through Angela’s tangled hair. She raises her head from where she’d been dozing on your arm, and you both grow still as you listen to the bright voice ringing clear and resonant from the throne room.

The Songs were all written in a language you neither speak nor understand, but the lilt of this one suggests an ancientness, reaching from a place where no man has ever set foot. You might be imagining the way the flickering oil lamps seem to dance in unison, how their golden flames throw shadows behind tall, granite pillars, as if the room has become a forest of massive trees.

You glance down at Angela and wonder if she knows its meaning, and there’s a rapt attention in her eyes that suggests she may. Before you can ask, though, the music comes to an end, the silence following it feeling somewhat skeletal in your ears. Arachne’s footman retrieves you both shortly after.

The four day ride back from Riohdr had not been therapeutic whatsoever. You have a sore hitch in your gait which you attempt to hide as you pass through the massive doorway to the room. On your way in, you spy a young woman standing stiffly beside the throne, waist-length hair a fair red-blonde, its hue much like Angela's. Her eyes are so milk-white you think she must be blind. She had been the one singing, surely; she wears a dress made of bright, vivid colors, hundreds of stories embroidered by meticulous goldwork-- the traditional garb of Loresingers.

You stifle the tremor in your aching leg as you kneel before the throne. Angela plops carelessly next to you, but she does gradually fold her legs under her as you’ve painstakingly taught her. She still fidgets, however, and you are certain she would rather be melded to the shadows to spy on the stranger in colorful clothes.

Perched on the edge of her throne and in a mess of flowing, nearly shapeless black robes, Arachne does not greet you. A scroll is unfurled on a spindly, delicate writing table, and the Empress swiftly moves an owl-quill pen across the paper, its scratching loud in the sprawling room. At her side, opposite the singer, is Giriko, crimson reliquary in hand and about twelve too many weapons strapped to him. His gaze is alight on Angela, and you are suddenly glad the girl stowed away in your saddlebags to Riohdr.

As Arachne writes, you notice that engraved trinket she’s so fond of is in her free hand, her fingers spider-like as she idly rolls it in her palm. Without looking up, the Empress asks, “Did you like the Song, Angela?”

Next to you, the girl snaps to attention. “Yes, your Majesty, I did.” In your peripheral, you see her curiously glance at the white-eyed woman. “It was very pretty.”

“It was, wasn’t it,” Arachne says amiably. She looks up from her scroll, using the quill to gesture to the young woman on her left. “This is Kimial. Kim, meet Mifune, a mercenary, and his charge, Angela. She’s a chameleon.”

The woman named Kimial bows, face betraying no surprise or emotion at all.

Arachne sets down the quill and rocks an ink-blotter over the scroll. “Kimial is the last living Loresinger formally trained by Maaba. Do you know who Maaba is, sweetheart?”

Angela slowly nods, and you're not sure you've ever seen her eyes so wide. “Yes, Empress. She walked with Eibon.”

“For many years. I’ve spent a decade collecting and preserving her Songs. When she brought Kim here to me, she left many of her texts for safekeeping. Would you like to read them?”

The girl gives you an unsure look. That frozen moment when she asked you to kill that assassin is still very fresh in your mind. Other than hiding her from those who would harm her, you’ve done very little in the way of saving her culture and heritage, even if you have wished otherwise. You give her a measured nod and she watches for your careful blink that tells her to disappear if anything seems amiss.

“I’d like that very much!” she blurts, hastily adding, “Please, your Majesty,” in afterthought. She sounds exactly how a nine year old girl should, you hope.

The Empress smiles. “Very good. When I am done talking with Mifune, I will send him to fetch you. Kimial, show Angela to my library. Help her with anything she needs.”

The young woman inclines her head. “Yes, Kinmother.” She steps forward and strides directly to Angela so quickly and unerringly that you realize she isn’t blind at all. She placidly holds out a hand to the girl.

Angela blinks, glancing briefly at you in the corner of her eye before slowly taking the Loresinger’s hand and standing. You are loath to let her out of your sight, but you’ve taught her ‘trust no one’ hundreds of times, and you’ve taught her ‘hide your true feelings’ a hundred times more. You must leave the rest to the gods and stars, watching with unease as the woman leads Angela out of the throne room.

Arachne had not given consent for you to stand-- in fact, she’s hardly acknowledged you at all-- so you continue to rest one knee on the granite in discomfort. With that stone still turning end over end in her hand, she rises from her throne for a moment only to sit down once more-- but on the edge of the dais, sitting before you in a way that suggests you might be equals while simultaneously honing the point that you absolutely are not.

She rests an elbow on her knee, chin in hand. In a quiet voice that does not carry far, she says, “I can’t express how distraught I was to discover the little chameleon missing. I had begun to think, _mercenary,”_ she murmurs, wearing a smile as dangerous as a sword, “that you had taken our newest Loresinger to the Eastlands on my finest horse.”

Arachne’s desire to train Angela as a singer is news to you, though you aren’t surprised so much as dismayed-- you need to get out from under the Empress’s thumb as soon as you are able. “My apologies, Empress,” you reply, bowing your head. “I do not leave a task unfinished. The girl tagging along was a surprise to me as well.”

Of all the consequences you had been preparing yourself for, you had not expected the Empress to laugh. “An honorable mercenary,” she chuckles. “Rest on both knees, sir.” She releases her chin just long enough to wave her hand impatiently. “You look a little worse for wear.”

You do not miss the condescending smirk on Giriko’s face. “As you command, Majesty,” you say, gruff. Your irritation lessens somewhat with the relief in your sore leg, at least.

“You did help secure Riohdr for me, as we agreed. And the girl is back home safe, so no harm done. I imagine it is difficult to keep track of one with Angela’s talents.” Abruptly, her fingers stop twirling the stone in her hand as she pins you with a calculating look. “How _did_ she come into the care of a mercenary?”

This is one subject you had hoped she would never touch on, as you’ve never been skilled in lying. You can’t tell her it was under her banner when you had disobeyed orders and taken the girl under you wing instead of delivering her to the Empress.

“I found her in a raided den during the war,” you say truthfully. “Her kin were slaughtered. She had no one.” You leave out the part where you had helped in their deaths as punishment for not cooperating with Imperial forces.

“ _And_ compassionate. You are a rare man, indeed.” You bow your head, but not before glimpsing Giriko and his now murderous glower. “It is a shame, the devastation White Star has caused,” she says, glossing over her own heinous crimes during the war. “Which is why I work so hard to preserve their culture. I should like for Angela to train under Kimial in the craft-- that is, if you _do_ intend to stay here.”

You are surprised she has offered the option to leave, even if only by empty words. Regardless, you do not yet have the means to travel again; you don’t even have a decent sword to your name anymore. “For a while longer, if your Majesty will allow it.”

“Of course. A girl like Angela should be kept here, where it is safe for her to grow and develop,” she says, more empty words that would have fooled you had you not already known her true colors. You know very well she intends to use Angela for her own gain, but Arachne’s next words make your blood run cold. “She is powerful, and I am certain you and I both know that an ember that only sees _the battlefield_ can become nothing but hellfire.”

Your hands clench atop your knees.

“So,” the Empress says, as you attempt to give no indication of just how close to your heart she had stung, “I shall keep careful watch over the girl. In return, I have another task for you.”

“...I am yours to command.”

Arachne places the stone in the lap of her dress before reaching up to her table and retrieving the scroll. “I trust you heard Kim singing earlier. Have you heard such a thing before?”

“I haven’t, Empress.” Angela has never sung that one, at least.

“It would surprise me if you had-- before today, only kindred have ever heard it, passed down through the mouths of Loresingers. But, times are changing,” she says with close-lipped smile, holding up the scroll. “I’ve translated the better part of it: _’Blood of the undying, his kiss stops time and brings miracles to flesh. His crown swirls with heaven’s stars. From his mouth sprouts life; from his feet, death. The Stag of Night walks from the deer forest.’”_

She carefully rolls up her scroll, tying a strip of leather around it with a tidy knot. “Do you know of this god of the kindred, mercenary?”

“I have only heard tell of ancient beasts from the west, Empress. Like the salamander which left the Dead Path.”

She nods. “Asura was one of the Old Ones, but this Night Stag is the god of gods-- a primordial deity of the kindred. It is his ‘undying blood’ the Song mentions that interests me.” Arachne places the scroll back on the table and turns to face you with her hands primly in her lap. “So I send you to Raskogr, where you will find the Night Stag and bring me his head.”

Silence reigns in the room for several moments. Whatever expression you have on your face makes Arachne laugh, for she says, “Speak freely, mercenary.”

Though she has granted you permission, you keep a wary eye on her over-armed guard when you flatly question the Aranei Empress. “You would slay the god of those you protect?”

“Yes.” To your speechlessness, she leans forward, as if disclosing something with an old friend. You find yourself noticing that her black robes seem to not diminish her so much as spread and connect to the shadows of the throne room, giving her a presence like a beast of prey. “You have seen every corner of this war. What have the gods done for the kindred? Where was this Night Stag when White Star tore apart the singers with his teeth? The reach of the gods appears not to extend very far these days-- why else would you take Angela into hiding?”

There is little you can say to refute this without incriminating yourself, and she knows it.

She says, “With the Deer God’s blood, _I_ will become the undying mother of the kindred.” She leans back, a hand pressed to her breast. “Who better than I? My reach stretches from the Cliffs to the Saltkin Islands and now, with your help, Riohdr. Soon the Warbringer and his pathetic clan will be under my heel, and the ivonhalls will once more resonate with Song. I will be the god they need, who can _truly_ protect them _._ ”

You take a deep breath, head reeling with the sheer absurdity the most powerful ruler in the country is capable of.

“Your eyes say you think me a heretic,” Arachne says with a tilt of her head. Behind her, Giriko shifts his weight and places his free hand on the hilt of one of his many blades, and you tense, a mere blink away from standing and defending yourself with a horribly disfigured sword. But the Empress raises a hand to put her guard at ease.

With an indulgent sort of smile, she says, “I don’t blame you. Surely it is blasphemous to murder a god and steal his throne. But answer me this--” Arachne takes the milky quartz from her lap and presents it to you, that fanged mask carved so delicately into its face. “If my plan were truly folly -- why, then, did heaven send you to me?”

 

* * *

 

**_Black Star_ **

\\\

Amateurs, the lot of them.

The three thieves pose no danger to you-- you have difficulty believing that anyone who circles around _upwind_ before an ambush poses a danger to anyone-- and you had assumed the Eastlander would sense them coming just as easily, creepy demonic voices aside. But you’ve assumed a lot of things since her performance in Riohdr, so you suppose this is just one more thing you’ve mistaken.

The thieves’ would-be arbalist neglects to take the storm’s winds into consideration, and the crossbow bolt wobbles into a poor trajectory, impaling Maka’s hand. Immediately after the shot, the three men descend upon the camp, and it’s clear they don’t recognize you because only _one_ targets you while the other two go after the woman.

You’re somewhat offended that he rushes at you headfirst like you’re some hapless traveller. Your dagger extends the idiot’s navel to his chin and, with an annoyed flick of your wrist, slices through the hot arteries of his neck. He chokes and falls, quickly growing still, and as you step over him you try to decide which of these next two who had dared ambush a Star as bright as you should return to the earth.

To your surprise, the assailants have stopped in their tracks just outside the ring of firelight, their eyes trained on the Eastlander. You watch as Maka slowly raises her hand, inspecting the bolt imbedded in her gloved palm like a curious child who has discovered a beetle. Then, without warning, she crushes the tip as easily as eggshells, the bolt snapping from between her bones.

She looks up at you then, the fire reflecting in her eyes much too brilliantly. You’re certain they'd been green before, but now her wide gaze reminds you of harvest moons and burning embers, and something in that gleaming red makes your stomach flip.

Maka smiles, a laugh falling from her lips and slipping into the storm.

‘ _It is not the shape that makes a beast,’_ she had warned you, and as you see dark swirls of energy curling around her hands, you invest all your effort into turning the hell around and taking cover behind the rubble of the old barn because you, unlike these poor thieves, are not a moron.

The two remaining men hesitate. You don’t blame them, but that slight pause will cost their lives. The woman has begun cackling in earnest, hunching over with chattering, sparking power twisting up her arms and around her sloping shoulders. Without a doubt, she is the demon you saw in Riohdr, her black beast at her side bellowing like a war horn. The man with the crossbow finally realizes he is no match for the foreign woman, and turns to flee.

He hasn’t even pivoted away completely before Maka hurls those shadowy crescent blades like bullets, his head rolling out of the camp as his body falls bonelessly to old hay. The remaining thief seems to lose his mind at the sight, desperately shrieking and raising his sword against the woman with little thought to consequence. You do not blink, yet you still don’t truly _see_ what happens-- only that the man is there one moment, and then, with a sound reminiscent of pulling open a melon, he is suddenly bisected at her feet, pooled in steaming blood.

You know it before those glowing crimson eyes dart to yours-- you are no friend to her. Her mount paws at the stained ground and dips his head towards you with threat, his curved horns looking more wicked than you recall. The Eastlander hunches even lower, misshapen, stretching to all fours as a creature of pitch and ebony fire, her magic burning around her and whipping in the wind in long, rope-like tails.  

Some part of that form makes your stomach twist again, reminding you of something you can’t immediately place and spurring you to react on pure, nerve-shrieking instinct. You throw yourself to the side as the barn wall shatters behind you, rubble and crumbling bricks raining down on the campsite. Blades howl past your face as you leap off rotting beams, but now you're faced with her giant elk charging you from the side. You’re running out of safe escape routes.

You do the only sensible thing you can think of, your hand wrapping around a hunk of old mortar and brick as you evade the elk, quickly hurling it at Maka’s head. Though she destroys it-- disintegrates it with a hissing strike of one of those tails-- you are already surging straight for her, your fist colliding into her face with all the force you have.

Admittedly, the impact is not as strong as it should have been. Your shoulder is still painfully injured, and the Eastlander doesn’t fly much farther than the remains of the barn wall, stones falling over her in a loud crash. Her elk makes a harrowing scream at this injustice to his rider, and you hurriedly turn to fend off whatever the charging beast has in store for you.

But, to your bewilderment, he slowly comes to a halt before he can bowl you over, dancing uneasily in place. Dagger tightly clenched in your hand, you wait, anxious and confused at the abrupt change in behavior. He gives his mighty head a shake, looking in the buried woman’s direction and giving a low, nervous warble.

In the mess of the barn wall, you hear a tired moan.

Though you feel you’ve had quite enough of these _insane_ foreigners, you do not drop your guard. Keeping one eye on the elk, you carefully edge closer to woman. “...Eastlander?” you call over the whipping wind.

She says a low string of words in her language before amending it to, “ ** _Ow._** _”_

You’re unwilling to part with your dagger so soon. You do nudge a brick or two away from her in a cautious attempt to see what’s left of her. “You still crazy? _Less_ crazy?”

Maka grits her teeth, shakily pushing a large chunk of wall off her chest. “Mystery,” she says. Her hood has fallen off her head, her short, ash-blonde hair sticking every which way. She’s hardly injured at all.

You suppose you’ve seen stranger things. You huff, sheathing your weapon and helping lift the weight off her. “As long as you don’t try to kill me again.”

She gives you a bleary, green-eyed glare. “Continue talking, might change,” she growls. With the the bulk of the wall off her, she rests in the scattered bricks, dazedly regarding the blood on her gloves as one would a recurring dream. Lips pulled into a taut line, she peels off the leather, tossing the gloves aside and revealing hands as black as tar.

“What _are_ you? Truly.”

Taking a long breath, Maka closes her eyes and tilts her head back. Snow lands on her face.

“Kishin,” she says. Whatever that means.

The storm picks up, snow blowing in hard enough to be nearly horizontal. After determining that the Eastlander _probably_ isn’t going to dismember you for the moment, you both move the camp under a giant cedar tree, its boughs sagging heavily with ice and snow enough to provide a shelter of sorts. There’s no room for a fire, but it blocks the wind better than the demolished remains of the barn, anyhow, and Maka’s mount makes the small space vaguely warm once he stops getting his massive antlers tangled in the branches.

Huddling into your cloak as the tree creaks and moans in the winter winds, you weigh the risks of moving to sit on the other side of the elk to absorb some heat. A glance at Maka advises you against the notion-- though the both of you had dragged the corpses downwind and out of sight, she gazes out of the tree and into the swirling night, as if she can still see the bodies. You press your back into the trunk of the tree and tuck your hands under your armpits.

“Is demon, in me,” she explains without prompt.

You mutter, “Yeah, I gathered as much,” but the remark is lost on her. She simply strokes her mount’s nose with those charcoal hands, preoccupied. The wounded hand is wrapped in gauze, the cloth slowly staining black, but she gives no indication that the injury hurts. “Where did you learn such magic?”

She finally looks away from the dark, watching you with an open kind of earnestness that makes you uncomfortable-- there’s an absence of suspicion there, and you’ve never once seen that while living with assassins. “No, is _curse,”_ she says emphatically. “For killing god.”

“Killing a god?” The back of your mind abruptly fits bits and pieces together-- the glowing eyes, that feral-like form with tails like a whip-- “Eibon’s _piss,_ **you** slayed the salamander?”

A small crease forms between her brows as she tilts her head to one side.

You excitedly gesture with your hands. “Like a lizard, but from the water. He’s red, and huge as a building--”

“That.” Maka tiredly nods with recognition. Her elk seems to sigh heavily for her. _“Asura.”_

She pronounces the name differently, but you recognize it. _This_ puny woman had been the last thing the Salamander God had seen as he rampaged across the continent? Then again, after what you’ve witnessed, you have no doubt she speaks truth. She takes on Asura’s very countenance when consumed by his magic. “And you killed him?”

“Yes. Attacking my village.” She stops rubbing the elk’s nose to hold up her hand, fingers clenching around something imaginary. “I taking... _blade_ ,” she says with a weak smile in your direction, though it fades almost instantly, “and carving his eyes.”

You acknowledge that Maka must have been a decent warrior, or at least a very desperate one, to have been able to kill a beast god in combat. Even so, you can’t stop the disappointment seeping into your limbs, a frown forming on your face. “And so he cursed you, and gave you his strength?” Doesn’t anyone gain power the old-fashioned way anymore?

She grimaces. “Am not controlling. Hate is eating, um,” she taps a finger on her collarbone, searching for a word, “eating _soul?_ Asura is very angry. I am dying.”

This village woman had strength enough to wipe Star Clan and the Empire both from the earth and rule the country if she wanted, but she was simply the victim of a vengeful god. “Everyone dies eventually,” you reply, tilting your head towards the dead men in the dark before slouching further against the tree. Following her had been a waste of your time. Her power was gifted, not sought, and that isn’t how you want to find strength. “So what are you doing on this side of the mountains? Apart from... beheading thieves.”

Face darkening, the Eastlander seems genuinely troubled by killing those men, though you can’t fathom why-- it was their own fault for picking their battles poorly. She says nothing about it though, instead reaching inside some hidden pocket in her clothes. “Having no home, now.” Then she pulls out a stone as dark as her fingers.

“Knowing this from where?” she asks, offering it to you. “Stone is what making demon god.”

You recognize it before you even pick it out of her hand-- Sephtis, sitting pretty in his rebuilt fortress, is the only one in the Western Territories with weapons capable of firing bullets like this one, and he is certainly the one who had driven Asura away from Raskogr. Stifling a laugh, you nod. “Have a map?”

You regret you won’t be able to see the look on the Lord of Iron Town’s face when the vessel of a demon’s revenge appears on his doorstep.

 

\\\

 

There is no appropriate time of day to sneak into a hive filled with assassins, so you hadn’t bothered with any stealth.

Carmine has a knee mashing against your neck and shoulder, pinning you to the floor of White Star’s quarters with your bad arm locked in the air.

Star Clan’s second in command is a grizzled man with long legs and a solid barrel of a belly. The man is _cunning,_ specializing in ambushes, vicious traps, and mind games. An assassin didn’t grow as old as Carmine without having quick wits; a shame his son hadn’t been gifted any of them.

As cunning as he is, you’re still stronger _and_ faster, and the only reason you allowed him to overtake you was for the quick and direct escort to your sire without being ambushed by anyone else on the way there. “What, no poison?” you taunt, mouth gritty from the floor. Blood drips from Carmine’s jaw, pooling on rough-hewn stone close enough for you to smell it. You hadn’t gone down without a fight-- you were certain to give him a parting gift from Jasper.

He digs his fingers into your wounded shoulder and you grind your teeth together.

“So you didn’t abandon us,” White Star says out of your line of sight. It sounds as if he’s enjoying a particularly juicy meal.

You huff against the floor. “We were overrun by Imperials. I had to make a detour, but I’ve _done as you’ve ordered.”_

Your sire says nothing, but must have given a signal to Carmine, because the man digs his knee further into your neck in tense rage. “But my _son--_

 **“Leave,”** the Warbringer growls, the room seeming to chill from his voice alone. More amiably, or at least less on the brink of murder, he says, “Have no doubt. We will avenge Jasper Star and all our Clan lost at Riohdr.”

Carmine slowly reaches down and proceeds to rip off the top of your bloody left ear, finishing the job his son had started before releasing you and stalking out of White Star’s quarters. Swallowing a hiss, you pick yourself off the floor, holding a hand to your ear to stem the bloodflow. This is when you are shocked to discover that the loud eating noises had not come from your father, but from the kindred mouse he usually kept in a cage. She’s in some hideous state of in-between, not as large as a human, not as small as a beast, pupils massive and nearly overtaking her eyes as she ravenously feasts on a bit of roasted meat still on the bone. To make everything even more bizarre, she’s sitting in White Star’s lap like a child-sized pet, grotesque mouse-hands trembling around her meal as she rips into tendons with overlarge incisors.

The Warbringer looks at you blandly, offering no explanation and daring you to ask at your own risk. “I uh… found your book,” you say, digging through your supply bag one-handed. You toss the heavy thing on his desk, feeling somewhat empty without its constant weight. “It’s in the beastling’s tongue.”

“I did not expect otherwise,” he replies. The book looks unnatural, its intricate designs out of place in White Star’s grim and gnarled hands-- though you’d rather look at that than the twitchy, half-shifted kindred sitting on his thigh. To the beast, he says, “Tell me which one,” and you get gooseflesh up your arms and legs at the lack of command in his tone. You have never once heard him speak _pleasantly_ to anyone, much less a meal, which makes the whole scene that much more riddled with perversion.

White Star opens the book with a blank expression, turning the yellowed pages at a slow and steady pace and watching the beastling for any reaction. While doing this he says, “You are to be executed, by the way.”

You realize, after a short pause, that he’s addressing _you._ **“What?”** It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been sentenced to death, though obviously it has never been carried out. But the way your sire says this -- less like a threat and more like another item on the daily agenda -- makes your heart pick up speed. Your eyes search the dark corners of his room for lurking threats. “I did what you told me to do,” you remind him.

He turns another page. “Carmine seems to believe you betrayed the Clan at Riohdr--”

“Carmine also believed his spawn would be the next chief,” you counter.

“--and that you took advantage of the confusion to murder his son,” he says with a smile, as if you’ve done him a favor. You suppose, with Jasper dead, that there’s one less kin-thirsty disaster walking around eating everything in sight, but you’re not one to take credit for things you haven’t accomplished. Like _betrayal._

Exasperated, you spit out, “I didn’t kill that idiot, I tried to save him!” You angrily press at the aching split between your jaw and ear. “Listen, Arachne has some new lapdog, and he’s more skilled than the majority of the Clan-- Jasper was bloodlusting _heavy_ in Riohdr, but this swordsman cut him down like an infant.” Your mouth shuts before you can add the part where Maka had finished the job and nearly took out the swordsman afterward, as you don’t want to delve into that mess if don’t have to. Trying to explain sharing a camp with a kin-lover in Clan territory without killing or even robbing her would bring you more trouble than it’s worth. Before you can think of anything else to say, White Star looks away from his pet snack and scrutinizes you, hand paused in his page-turning.

“Was this swordsman light-haired?”

You blink. Every question he’s ever asked you has always been loaded or rhetorical, with no right answer and always ending with some sort of violence. You don’t see what he’s after this time, however, so you answer truthfully. “...Yeah. Undone. I asked if he was the Empress’s concubine.”

When White Star _laughs,_ you decide all the kinflesh must have finally taken its toll on his sanity.

He says, “That was Mifune, the mercenary. He fought alongside us for a time, then had the audacity to change his alliance.” All humor is lost in an instant, and White Star begins turning pages once more. “I am due to meet him again and take his head off his shoulders. The only way to leave the Clan is through a coffin.”

You habitually check the dark corners for threats again. “Yeah, about that--”

This is when the kindred in his lap trills unintelligibly, caught between pointing at a gilded page and mashing the haunch of meat further into her mouth. White Star’s eyes gleam as he pours over the page, and you wonder how the man who started the Doctrine War can look so excited over a piece of something he has destroyed. “Very good,” he says, or maybe _praises_ \-- you’ve never heard that before, either-- and pushes the book closer to the mouse woman. “Read this carefully, now.”

With a manic expression on her partially furred face, the kindred finally stops eating, idly holding the food in her hands while her eyes dart across the text. You become slightly nauseous as your sire gives you a sinister grin, patting the creature on the head as she works.

White Star drawls, “I know you are not the traitor who informed Arachne of our plans. This one,” he pats her more firmly, the kindred’s neck bobbing with the effort, “had been squealing to her little mouse sister. They are the reason we lost Riohdr.”

The Warbringer takes a moment to gently push the haunch of meat in the kindred’s paws back up to her mouth. The mouse gnaws unthinkingly, stars swirling in her black eyes.

You have a feeling you know where the sister went. The word ‘kishin’ pops into your head unbidden, and you recall that unearthly voice telling you that shape doesn’t make the beast. You scowl, deliberately ignoring the part of you that wonders how the Eastlander would react if she knew your father feeds kindred to kindred. “If the _beastlings_ are at fault, then why does Carmine want me dead?”

“He doesn’t know about them,” White Star benignly replies. And, with dread pulling at the hairs on the nape of your neck, it’s clear to you that he won’t be telling Carmine the truth anytime soon. The only way to leave Star Clan is through a coffin, and your sire appears determined to help you with that.

If Carmine has called for your execution, all sorts of initiates and low-ranking Clan eager for his favor will come calling. Your hands itch for your daggers, your mind running through all possible escape routes before the headhunters come and make things complicated. You’ve just decided on taking the old mine shafts when the kindred in White Star’s lap suddenly tugs on his tunic, pointing at a particular line in the book.

 _“The Night Stag,”_ she squeaks out, shivering and spitting kinflesh from her mouth as she translates, _“th-the Night Stag walks in Raskogr.”_

At this development, the Warbringer looks nearly _delighted._ His grin splits his face, something in the back of your mind noting his beast-like appearance. Rewarding the mouse with another cut of her own kind, he turns to you and says, “Good news. I have finally found a use for you, _son._ ”

There is only the barest whisper of movement up in the rafters, and you’re suddenly deflecting razor-sharp needles headed for your face, relying on reflex. A young woman wrapped in heather-grey gauze and patchwork leather lands on the stone floor with grace. You haven’t seen her in some time-- not since her first assignment when she came of age.

“Ivory?” you blurt stupidly. She’s come to kill you? _Now?_

She responds with the sound of some grinding mechanism under her cloak, another round of needles bursting forth. You hastily deflect these with your daggers, the needles ricocheting to all corners of your father’s quarters, but she uses the distraction against you the same way you had used the tactic on the Eastlander-- she’s a hair’s breadth from you, so much faster than you remember. “Well met, brother,” she says as she stabs you right in the inflamed heart of your star tattoo, voice as childlike as it has always been.

As you fall to your knees, your vision tunnelling as poison floods your bloodstream, the Warbringer says, “You are better use to me dead than alive.”

Ivory leans over, adding in a sweet whisper, _“Everyone dies eventually, Black Star.”_

 

\\\

 

In the northernmost part of the Western Territories, there is a massive plateau named Death’s Table. It’s riddled with all manner of pointy things, like unforgiving nettles, tackweed, buckthorn, and enough juniper to make a grown man cry. It snows nine-tenths of the year there, but that hadn’t stopped Star Clan from setting up camp permanently on top, though you think the only reason they hold the territory so well is simply because no one else wants it.  

It is somewhere between the stinking boar pens and the sheer drop off the edge of the plateau where you wake up sprawled in an uncomfortable shrub because that is where your half-sister had tossed your unconscious body. Poison never did work on you very long-- an assassin without literal intestinal fortitude can scarcely be called one at all-- but it’s not to say Ivory’s handiwork doesn’t make you feel rotten while suffering its effects. With uncoordinated limbs, you roll out of the shrub to vomit in the snow, trying to remember what the hell happened in White Star’s office.

You’ve been executed… you think. Cursing, you lift your cloak to see what havoc Ivory had wreaked on your shoulder. Between your hasty sewing job, Carmine’s spiteful fingers, and your sister’s poisoned needle, the wound isn’t in good shape. Your tattoo is swollen, your skin red and hot to the touch.

You wearily flop onto your back, one hand patting for your supply bag to see if there’s anything left to your name. To your surprise, you find most of your gear, as well as a note written in your father’s hand. You have a battle with your vision before you can make out the words.

It says: _“Bring me the head of the Nightwalker in Raskogr, and you shall have your freedom. Until then, Ivory Star will be my eyes. Report to her should you find anything useful. You are dead, so try to stay that way.”_

Further down the page are presumably excerpts from that damned book you brought him, along with other little bits of information about some Deer God lurking about the forests out west. Honestly, you don’t care, too sidetracked by the word ‘freedom’ to be bothered. You read the the first sentence another four times to ensure you haven’t lost your mind.

Not only are you dead to nearly the entire Clan, you have also been given the chance to _slay a god._ How much more fortuitous can your life become?

You have no idea why your sire wants this god’s head or why he is keeping it secret from the entirety of the Clan save you and Ivory, but if he’s willing to trade it for your independence, you’ll gladly fake ten more executions. The pain in your arm is a distant memory as you sit on the frozen earth and simply laugh.

Your unadulterated excitement is enough to get you up on your shaky legs and down the plateau through one of the old, neglected mineshafts, your stray chuckles bouncing down the tunnels. You sneak away from Death’s Table, avoiding Clan patrols and trap runs. The storm is a veritable blizzard now, sending flurries under your cowl as you trudge west through knee-high snow.

Two hours of travel has you at the doorstep of the Black Tower, a giant, skeletal neighbor to Death’s Table. This is where White Star had treed the prophet Eibon like a cat at the start of the war, and when the Clan finally broke down its ebony doors and ravaged every floor, they had found the prophet gone, ascended into the arms of heaven like a coward.

Beyond the Tower is the road that will take you straight to the cliffs of Raskogr, but you’re tempted to rest here for a bit-- Ivory’s poison has affected you more than you’d realized. You’re actually _cold_ despite having been practically born in the snow and ice, and if you were a lesser man you would admit to feeling dizzy. But you remember that now it's _your_ turn to take a blade and carve out a god’s eyes, to fight a worthy opponent without anything to stop you but your own determination-- so you keep walking.

It’s well past nightfall when you can no longer ignore your fatigue or the deep ache in your right arm. Either that poison is still doing a number on you, or your wound is brewing its own. You need to stop for the night, missions and gods be damned, and it’s as you’re looking for a place to camp that you nearly stumble across one already made in the shelter of a copse of trees.

You’re going to get yourself killed if you can’t stay focused. You quietly creep to the shadows, realizing belatedly that the road to Raskogr must not be far at all when you spy the shape of a blanketed horse. It’s one of Arachne’s glider steeds, bred for long distance travel and tethered to one of the trees.

You had intended on passing the camp by, but if some Imperial lackey is stupid enough to camp so openly in Clan territory, you ought to at least steal _something_. Careful to avoid the light from the struggling campfire, you stalk around the trees, staying downwind as to not alert the horse. You finally spy a man, but you think Ivory’s poison has taken you for another bout because no matter how many times you try to clear your eyes, the man standing by the fire looks like the straw-haired swordsman from Riohdr.

This is a man not to be trifled with, but you can’t help but inch closer. He appears to be talking with someone, and you strain your ears to hear him through the winds whistling through the trees.

“Why do you insist on sneaking around so much,” he says tiredly, though to whom you cannot say.

“I won’t sing for her, Mif,” a young girl’s voice replies, to your surprise. Mifune the mercenary, your sire had named him. It _is_ the swordsman, after all-- but why on earth is a little girl his traveling companion? Is she his get? “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I.”

“See? And you’re _old._ You gots to have someone protect you.” The swordsman grumbles something you can’t hear and stalks away, sitting on a felled log and drawing a blisteringly-new sword for inspection. Then the girl says, “Can I practice my words with that paper she gave you?”

“Do not lose it,” the man replies, pulling what looks to be a missive from an inner pocket of his cloak.

You see a tiny girl with strawberry blond hair bound into the light, retrieving the note and using the campfire to read by. “Her Imperial Majesty, the Ssssov--”

“Sovereign,” Mifune supplies.

“--Sauv-rin Empress Arachne, does entreat Lord Septhis of Iron Town, with the aid of the swordsman Mifune, to track and e-lim-in-ate? The beast known as the Night Stag.” Your breath catches in your throat; evidently Arachne _also_ wants the head of this god, which is not good news. The girl then asks, “What does ‘compensation’ mean?”

The mercenary pauses his stoic scrutiny of his weapon. “It is a reward given to someone for doing something they would rather not.”

A silence passes between the man and the girl that you cannot interpret. She then goes on to read the rest of the missive, describing the terms by which Arachne intends to bribe Sephtis to do her dirty work. If the Lord of Iron Town takes her offer-- which is, admittedly, lucrative-- not only would the near impregnable fortress have formed an alliance with the Clan’s enemy, but you would also have to compete with a skilled swordsman _and_ a town with firepower enough to combat huge beasts for the head of the Night Stag.

The best thing you can do is kill these two to prevent them from getting in your way, earning you some time to work until Arachne sends out another emissary. In your current state, however, you’re not certain you could come out of that battle in one piece, even if you ignored the illogical voice in your mind that protests attacking both a skilled warrior and a child underhandedly; you have no room for that kind of risk _or_ unprofessionalism. You decide to bide your time and wait for the two to retire for the night so that you can steal Arachne’s missive as well as the horse, which should delay the mercenary for a while.

Staying still for so long drops your body temperature to nearly unbearable levels, and you can only muster enough control to stop your shivering in the sparse moments the wind dies down before howling again. Your temples pound with your pulse, and you would give a lot of things to be able to cut off your arm so you could stop feeling the awful ache twisting around your bones.

Your mind wanders, even if you try your best not to let your concentration lapse. You find yourself wondering about the Eastlander and if she’s made it to Iron Town and levelled it to the ground. It’s unfortunate that she cannot control the power given to her, but it _would_ make your life a lot easier if, when you arrive in Raskogr, the town were simply gone and the Empress would have to hunt the Night Stag by other means. Not to mention that, after all the Iron Town caravans you’ve led raids against, Sephtis doubtless knows your face well enough to paint a portrait-- if he found out you were hiding in the forest around his fortress, he’d send his army of riflemen after you without blinking.

You don’t know when your eyes closed, but when you open them you realize Mifune has curled up near the fire, asleep. Your legs vibrate with pain as you slowly, _slowly_ stand out of your crouch and creep towards the camp. The glider horse does not scent you, and if he hears your steps, he doesn’t give so much as a sigh.

You’re a few paces away from the sleeping mercenary when you realize you can't see the girl. There is a lump under his cloak, however, pressed against his back. Good -- she's out of your way so you can stealthily search him for Arachne’s missive. Sliding your hand beneath the cloth, your cold-numb fingers seek out where that inner pocket should be. With a steady, gentle touch, your fingertips pinch around the rough paper and slide it out.

Once it's free of the man’s cloak, you give it a quick glance to make sure it is truly what you want-- only to find that you are staring into your empty hand. You feel a weight there, but you see nothing.

 _“I remember you from the border town,”_ says a girlish voice, and suddenly a lizard bleeds green in your hand, scales dry and flakey.

You quickly curse and fling it away in surprise before you realize you’ve been fooled. The lizard lands off to the side, rolling into a human shape with an undignified squeal, and suddenly there’s the metallic whistle of a sword coming for your throat. You only _just_ manage to deflect it, your arm igniting with the effort. Backing away from the awakened mercenary, you exclaim, “Is _everyone_ a kinlover now?!”

Mifune snarls, “You will not take her, cannibal,” and you offer a rather harried smile, on the defense from his lightning-quick attacks.

“So you remember me, too. I’m-- _hurgh--_ glad,” you bite out, trying to find your footing. In your peripheral, you can see his spooked horse kicking and dancing in fear, and you try to avoid going near those hooves. The man’s strikes jar your arms as you defend yourself with your daggers; he swings with much more fury and force than he had in Riohdr. “Sorry to disappoint, Imperial dog, but I didn’t come for the beastling.” You attempt a strike near his thigh-- your first offensive attack-- but he meets it with ease, countering with a stab that comes alarmingly close to your innards. “Give me Arachne’s letter and I won’t tell the Clan about the tasty pet you’re keeping in their domain.”

The look of undiluted hatred he gives you could easily measure up to White Star’s eternal glower when you are in his sight. “You can’t speak if you have no head--”

You roll out of the way of his singing sword, and you’re dismayed to find that the world continues to spin in your eyes when you are back on your feet. You need to end this quickly before you make a fatal misstep and get carved like Jasper. Hurling a handful of metal spikes in the mercenary’s direction, you kick at the campfire, knocking glowing coals into his face.

He cringes away for only the barest moment, his skin still burning as he comes for you, but you are already upon the girl. She tries to evade you by smoking back to her lizard body and pulling that disappearing act, but you’re on to her tricks-- no one knows how to vanish better than an assassin. She’s mouthy, squirming and cursing you impressively as you hold her by the tail.

Mifune halts in his tracks when you press a dagger against the tiny creature. His sword gleams in the firelight, bits of his cloak still smoldering from coals.

“Come closer and she loses the tail,” you announce, blinking away your dizziness. “I dunno what she’d lose in her human disguise, seeing as we don’t have those, but I’ll bet it’s probably something important.”

The fury on the man’s face slowly vanishes, replaced by an unreadable look, narrow eyes still as glass.

You say, “Give me the missive and the beastling lives.”

Your vision is blurring-- you can’t decide if that is anger or confusion he wears. He opens his mouth to say something, but the lizard in your hand interrupts him. “I’m alright, Mifune,” she says proudly. “I can si--”

 _“No,”_ the mercenary says emphatically. “It’s fine.” You don’t know what exactly this kindred thinks she can do against you, but it matters not. Mifune slowly reaches beneath his cloak and pulls out the rolled paper you’d wanted in the first place. He tosses it on the ground at your feet.

Chameleon still in hand, you keep a wary eye on the man as you bend to retrieve it. The earth seems to lurch beneath your feet when you stand. Taking a steady breath, you add, “I’ll be taking your horse, as well. Untie it.”

Mifune calms and frees the beast, stepping away far enough to grant you a wide out of reach from his sword. “Release her,” he warns, the tip of his weapon ever pointed at you.

You keep your back away from his eyes as you edge towards the horse. Only when you have the reins within reach do you sheathe your dagger and hurriedly toss the lizard kindred to him. He catches her with such devoted care that you’re already on the horse’s back and escaping out of sight before he can attempt retaliation.

 

 


	4. stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  

**_Thane_ **

\\\

 

Though he sleeps, you sit at your father’s bedside while wrapping your wrist, confessing what you’ve done. You think you may understand his burden more fully, finally grasping the weight of protecting your people. You’ve spent many months reflecting on your father’s past decisions and how you would have chosen differently, but now you realize that there is no right choice, sometimes.

“I did not want anyone to die, yet I did the most harm.”

Your father’s hands twitch in his sleep. You wonder what he grasps after in his dreams.

At a table by the hearth, Medusa mixes herbs and grinds them with mortar and pestle, their oils pungent in the room. Because she so frequently tends to your father, she is often subjected to your thoughts spoken aloud, and you have come to appreciate her quiet company-- she does not condemn you for your sometimes darker musings, even offering advice from time to time.

She is a healer first and foremost, however, and upon seeing your novice attempt at wrapping your wrist, she waves you over with a frown. Pointing at a seat, she orders you to stay put while she finds adequate dressings for your injury. “We must gird our weaknesses,” she says, inspecting a collection of wooden splints in her basket of supplies to find two of an appropriate length. “The greater good most often comes at the expense of compassion.” She secures the splints to your forearm, immobilizing your broken wrist. “Which you have in spades, young lord, and it seems to be both your strength and weakness.”

You can do nothing but grimace at both her words and ministration. The splints seem to be slightly off-center, but you refrain from adjusting them because the woman has no qualms smacking those who would tamper with her work. “Though you learned that from Lord Sephtis, I am sure.” Once she is finished with you, she begins to clean up her mess of herbs and remedies, moving them to containers and jars. “And it is because of his compassion that I am allowed sanctuary here, away from my power-hungry sister, so I cannot chide you for that.”

Using your sash and the opening of your overgown, you carefully rest your arm inside your clothes like a sling. Quietly, you ask, “If you were in my position, out on the cliff, what would you have done?”

Medusa raises only her eyes to yours when she replies, “The only thing I would have done differently, my lord, was make sure the wolf was _dead._ ” She continues to collect her belongings, tinctures clinking together in her basket. “Most of the town, myself included, believe you should hunt down the rest of the Old Ones so that we may live peacefully.”

You openly gape at her. “You know best of all what kind of devastation that causes--”

She holds up a hand, nodding. “I do. Everything comes at a price. I suppose it is a matter of deciding which choice costs the most in the long run, my lord.” Basket in arms, she stands, giving you an enigmatic sort of smile. “I simply worry-- how many more meetings with Moro do you think your body can handle?” With that, she leaves another jar of that awful, stinging poultice on the table for you before excusing herself.

_Could_ you kill the gods of Raskogr? Would they stay in the grave? Would they rise up and pick up where Asura left off, so that all you can hear at night are the screams of the burning bellows girls? Would you fend them off like your father, touched by curses and doomed to wither away to bones and madness?

Harvar would never forgive you, certainly. You don’t believe Blair would approve, either, though you can’t pinpoint why because she’s always been neutral when it came to your father dealing with the Old Ones. And then there is the matter of Soul Eater-- who is neither wolf nor man but somehow in an undefined place between the two. Would you be forced to slay him, as well?

You suppose you may have to kill Soul, regardless. After shooting Moro this morning, he will certainly come after you, and likely not for the usual exchange of trifling blows and banter. He has never truly attacked you or anyone from Iron Town with the intent to kill, but that may not be the case anymore, should Moro die.

If you killed Soul along with the gods, would it bring peace to your people? If you tipped the Nightwalker’s scales, what would you lose in return?

_“Thane.”_

You start, head whipping around to see your father’s hand weakly raise. You hurry to him, grasping his fingers and finding them as cold as the snow piling outside. His feet twist under the furs on his cot. “She is wrong.” he says to your surprise-- he had evidently been both awake and coherent enough to listen to your conversation with Medusa. “Do not follow me-- you must make… your own path.” His head makes an involuntary shake, eyes wandering about the room under his mask. “Don’t make my mistakes.”

It is hard to see your father this way. “I fear I may have, already,” you admit. “I don’t know what I can do that won’t make everything worse.”

“It’s a narrow path,” he agrees, his voice taking on an amusement that makes your heart sink. Sephtis suddenly chuckles, the noise unnatural and misplaced. “She’s waiting for you.”

His laughter becomes loud and crazed then, and you try to calm him until his weary body can no longer take the strain, and he falls into a fitful sleep. You brush back his sweaty hair. “Who is waiting, Father,” you murmur, trying to make any sense of his descent into madness.

Your hand pauses. You know exactly who is waiting.

 

\\\

 

Even if compassion is your weakness, it steadily spurs you forward into the forest.

There is little doubt that this is one of the more stupid ideas you’ve had. You made certain Ox was busy dealing with Patricia’s latest attempt at breaking into the armory when you stole away into the blizzard.

One probably shouldn’t take the insane gibberish of a cursed man so literally. Night is falling, and any number of things could kill you out here: exposure, vengeful ghosts, gods, wolf-princes, a slippery patch of ice too close to the cliff-- though to be perfectly truthful, you are more fearful of Ox and Harvar when they realize you aren’t in Iron Town.

Still, something pulls you forward, be it desperate guilt or desperate hope. You try to stay off the road, where the wind whips furiously enough to blow a man off his feet, and stick to the trees, trying to avoid perilous snow drifts that could swallow you whole. The light is dying fast, and you don’t have a chance of keeping a lantern lit in this weather, so you need to hurry and find the fallen supply wagon before it becomes too dark to see your own feet.

It’s difficult to navigate the deep snow with a splinted arm throwing you off balance. Everything from your knees down is quickly going numb, and your doubts resurface--  you should turn back, no one could survive this weather all day, you must simply admit you are a murderer and pay the consequences-- and then you suddenly shout, because you’ve gone completely and utterly blind.

You turn to stone where you stand, one hand on a tree for balance. Your eyes water with how wide you open them, but there is only darkness. The world seems to twist in every direction, and you suffer a moment of nausea while clinging to the tree still under your hand. Perhaps the Nightwalker has come to collect his payment, drinking every drop of light so he may better see your soul and eat it.

You jump out of your skin when something flies over your shoulder, a gust of wind howling past your ear and ruffling your hair. Though it is pointless to look, your eyes seek out whatever had flown by, and then you see a faint circle light behind you. Squinting, you try to make out the shapes that move within it, like a distant window looking outside an empty room, but it is too far away. Your heart pounds loudly in your ears.

“I do not have time for ghosts or trickster magic!” you call out to anyone who might be listening, your fear channelling into anger. You curse. If you let go of the tree, you’ll be adrift in darkness. For the life of you, you can’t remember where in the forest you are, or if the way to that port-hole of light leads straight off Raskogr Cliff.

You suppose your father _did_ say the path was narrow. With an uneasy sigh, you tentatively let go of your one anchor to the world.

The moment you lift your hand, you lose your hearing. “Gods be damned!” you shout, and then cringe, because you hadn’t expected to hear yourself. You realize it is not that you have lost the ability to hear, but that the blizzard has abruptly ceased. There’s no wind or creaking of trees. Turning around to find that round window of light, you can faintly hear a chirping bird.

You walk towards the sound, your steps somehow sure-footed on a road you never see.

The circle of light, as you draw nearer, is more of a doorway than a window. Through it, you see the shadows of tall trees neatly lining a clearing in the forest. You’re startled to find it familiar-- you’ve been there before, but it should be much, much farther away from you than this. A bird is still chirping from the other side of the door, so you swallow the lump of terror in your throat and step out of the darkness and into the clearing.

The storm has stopped. Peeking between thinning clouds and bare treetops, the sliver of the moon is dreamlike, illuminating the fresh snow on the ground. Your breath comes out in thick, frozen fog as you look behind you. Bewildered, you tip your head back when you’re met not with the door you had walked through, but the near vertical cliff face of Raskogr stretching up to the sky. When you tilt your head, searching for where you _must_ have come through, you notice that the peculiar shapes of nearby tree branches, rock formations, and evergreen shrubs seem to form a perfect circle when viewed at a precise angle.

You think you’ve been led through some type of magical gate to this clearing. Your good hand on the sword at your hip, you cautiously search for whatever being might have deigned to bring you here.

Your heart lurches when you see a prone body tangled up in a thick cloak in the snow, nearly buried. Has the forest led you to the woman who’d fallen down the cliff? You throw caution to the wind when you see the rise and fall of her still-breathing body. You quickly kneel beside her, brushing off snow and carefully turning her to her back.

She’s not Patricia’s sister at all. She’s actually a _man._

His face is covered in sweat and grime, a swollen cut running from jaw to ear. His skin is like a stove, and when you brush your hands over the wet stain bleeding through his cloak, he rasps out in delirious pain. You grimace when you peel back the fabric and look-- the man’s shoulder is fetid, stinking and horribly infected. And then, underneath the pus and clotted blood, you find the star tattoo.

You hurriedly push yourself away, backpedaling through the snowy clearing. Blood thunders in your ears. _What was Star Clan doing in Raskogr?_ Your anger is immediate as you instantly recall all the horrors White Star has inflicted upon the country, of all the carnage his clan of assassins is responsible for. How many caravans have they slaughtered? How many kindred have they stolen before they could reach the safety of Iron Town?

Inching closer to get a better look the man’s face, you recognize this cannibal: he is Black Star, a son of the Warbringer, and has often led the attacks on your father’s supply trains. The injustices he and his father have committed alone are enough to kill him where he lies.

Perhaps the powers of the forest brought you here to eliminate this mutual enemy. You dislike the thought of killing a helpless man, but this isn’t a man-- this is simply a demon parading around in human skin. You’ll be putting him out of his misery _and_ doing the world a favor.

Standing, you draw your sword, though it’s awkward holding it with only one hand. When you step forward once more so you may cut his throat, you see a shadow.

It is not like shadows cast by the moon shining on the trees. It is like the darkness that had swallowed you earlier, making your eyes burn when you try to see but find nothing for your eyes to focus on. You can only discern its shape when it moves, and you blink when you make out the silhouette of a deer staring at you from across the clearing. Its spindly legs carry it with grace to Black Star’s body, where it bends its neck low to sniff his face.

Your sword trembles in your hand. “Are you the Nightwalker?”

The shadow picks up its head, ears attuned to you. Voices slowly murmur like insects along the ground, gathering in the clearing and picking up in volume until their whispers overwhelm your ears and heart.

“I am not,” the chorus replies. You blink, and the deer is no longer, replaced by the figure of a woman, her hair pooling like an empty night sky down her body, a pale face only seen when the moon is hidden behind clouds. She has delicate antlers branching from her head, so dark as if to eat the light around it. “I am his shadow.”

You do not understand what that means or if it has any significance, but she appears to be related to a god-- that’s enough to make you sweat. Trying your best not to blink lest she changes shape again, you ask, “Did you bring me here to kill this man?”

The moon comes out and the shadow-woman’s face disappears, though you think there is a glinting of glowing indigo where her eyes should be. “You are mistaken,” the voices say, rustling inside your head. “I have been waiting for you, Thane, son of Sephtis, for I want this man to live.”

 

\\\

 

You are ruing your compassion the further you haul this cannibal lump.

His arm slung across your shoulders, you’ve discovered the assassin is _heavy_ despite his size, and is entirely comprised of dead, uncooperative weight. Not long after you pass back through that eerie shadow gate, skipping through miles of forest in moments, Harvar and Blair find you.

“Where in the nine hells have you _been_ ,” the woman cries, floundering through the snow to meet you. She gives a cursory glance at your companion, but quickly ignores him in favor of worriedly putting her warm hands on your face. “There was an avalanche and we thought-- we’ve been searching for hours, kid!”

You blink, brows furrowed with your cheeks mashed between her palms. She isn’t wearing nearly enough layers for this weather, and is not one of your guards, besides! “What are you doing out here? I--- wait, _hours?_ Surely not, I only left at nightfall.” You try to catch a glimpse of the moon, but you can’t look skyward with Black Star’s arm around your shoulders.

Havar glides to the ground from a nearby tree, rising from the snow on two legs. “It is nearly dawn. Ox will soon eat the forge,” he says, before asking, “Who is this?”

You’re so dumbstruck by the loss of time that you don’t get a moment to explain before the kindred crow recognizes the unconscious man. Harvar’s typically unexpressive face pulls back into a hateful snarl. _“Star Clan?”_ he seethes, Blair backing away from you and the assassin with wariness. “You came out alone to save _this?”_

“I was led to him,” you hurriedly say.

“By whom, _Eibon?”_

“Now, boys…”

You huff, hitching Black Star higher on your shoulder before trudging past the both of them. “You don’t have to help.”

To your shock, Harvar strides ahead of you and blocks your path. He draws his firearm, pointing it at the assassin’s hanging head. “I’ll help put this abomination where it belongs,” he growls.

You’re too stunned to react, so it is Blair who takes charge, slapping her hands against the barrel of the pistol and putting herself in the line of fire. “Get a hold of yourself this instant, Harvar,” she hisses into his face. “Crows are made from _wisdom!”_

You don’t know what she means by that, but after a few heart-thudding moments, you are relieved to see Harvar gently nudge Blair’s hands away from the gun before he lets the weapon rest at his side. “I could have blown off your hands.” He gives you a distrustful look over Blair’s shoulder, which doubles in intensity when he glares at the assassin again. “Explain yourself,” he demands, though you and he both know he has no authority to demand anything of you. Blair is curious too, turning and asking a similar question with her eyes.

“I scarcely know how to say it.” You press your lips together to find enough warmth in them to speak properly. “I was looking for the woman from the caravan, then I was swallowed by darkness and walked through a… a _portal_ to the bottom of the cliff-- please refrain from asking me how that happened because I _don’t_ know-- and then I found _this_ one instead,” you say, hitching Black Star up on your shoulder again. Your wrist and ribs let their complaints be known with the effort. “And when I was about to slay him, the shadow of the Nightwalker asked me to save him, instead.”

There’s a long beat of silence before Blair and Harvar abruptly explode into rapid-fire questions, but you sigh and walk around them again, hiking up the slope back to Iron Town because you don’t have any answers for them and you think if you stand for much longer your legs are going to give out. You didn’t ask for this task-- that woman from the caravan could still be out there but instead you’re stuck with this man-eating demon for reasons you aren’t privy to.

Thankfully, you only make it a few paces before Harvar is on the other side of the assassin, carefully taking the man’s injured arm around his own shoulders and lifting some of the weight from you.

“If even half of what you say is true, I apologize,” he says, trying to stay in step with your shorter stride. “You have spoken with Tsubaki, the Nightwalker’s sister. She is his shadow made flesh.”

The god had said as much to you. Frustrated, you blurt, “What does that even _mean?”_

“...I read the lore, not write it.”

Blair comes up on your other side, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. “But why would she want the Warbringer’s son alive?”

Their eyes land heavily on you. “You tell me. She disappeared before I could ask, only leaving me with that damned portal,” you say, tossing your head in the direction you came. “You know the rest. Ah-- I assure you, the time was hardly anything for me-- I’m sorry to have made everyone worry.”

Blair laughs at that. “Save your apologies for Ox, you’ll need th--” She cuts her sentence short, suddenly halting in her tracks. You and Harvar slow to a stop.

“What is it?” you ask, worriedly scanning the vicinity for anything amiss.

She turns back to you with a cheery face that feels out of place. “You two get that boy back to the town, I’ll keep searching for Patti’s sister. The storm’s passed, I’ll be fine!”

“W-wait, what? Don’t--” you protest, but she’s already trotting back into the snowy forest with a wave. “Harv, if there’s been an avalanche, we can’t let her go out there by herself.”

The kindred gives you a dry look that speaks novels. “She is more capable than you think. Let’s worry about the cannibal first.” When he starts back up the hill and you do not follow, he sighs. “Thane.”

“She’s not even wearing a cloak.”

Strangely, Harvar twists his mouth as if he wants to say something, but refrains. You don’t mask your suspicion, as you’ve never known him to not speak his mind, but he looks away. He does eventually say, “I will find her if I must, but not until after you are back home...if there is still a home left after _Ox.”_

 

* * *

 

**_Maka_ **

\\\

 

“Bears are born from strength,” you recite.

When you were young, your father used to tell you and the other young ones stories by the fire pit. He’d flex his hands and the shadows he made seemed to come to life. You heard the tales so many times that you thought you would be able to repeat them from your heart til the day you died, but Asura has taken most of these from you.

There is still one story you remember, though, lodged deep in your memory where the demon can’t pry it out. It’s not a story at all, but more of a child’s verse with no rhyme. Its lines resurface in your thoughts from time to time, and you use them now like an old friend to remind you who you were.

“Bears are born from strength,” you murmur again, your hands tightening around the reins, “while crows are made from wisdom.” Crona balks at the black path of destruction that cuts through the road. It steams, the winter snows melting around it.

_You will know my rage and despair._

Your arms throb, the curse burning and stealing the breath from your chest. The whispering in your nerve endings makes certain you know that this is a place Asura had been, leaving his mark on the earth. Squinting through tearing eyes, you raise your head to look for a way around the scar. “W-wolves protect, lizards conserve,” you desperately rasp, unwilling to relinquish your control to the demon again. The closer you get to the burning land, the harder it is to keep yourself, and the curse has become stronger since you’ve left home. Without someone like Blade to thwart you, you’re terrified you won’t be able to stop the demon’s rage like you had in Riohdr.

Asura’s mark stretches as far as you can see, black as the curse on your arms. Where it intersects with the road, there are planks and stones thrown down to prevent travellers from coming into contact with the earth directly. Along the roadside are stakes tied off with ribbons and prayers to ward off evil, and coming close to these seems to affect you as adversely as the black mark itself.

Your elk nervously shakes his head and begins to pace the longer you linger. “Deer live in…in gentleness,” you grit out between your teeth. “Think you can jump this, Crona?” After a moment of consideration, he backs up a few steps before you feel the muscles in his legs coil. You cling to his back, pushing the voices away by remembering the virtues of changelings, as taught by the chief of your village in his colorful headdress.

It’s as the elk leaps through the air, allowing you to fly like a bird in that brief moment of weightlessness, when you discover you can no longer recall the virtue of sparrows.

 

\\\

 

According to Blade, the ‘bullet’ that had poisoned Asura is but one of thousands, all made in a place named Iron Town. He told you to take the road up the cliff, but it is impassable when you arrive; it looks like there had been some kind of landslide, mud and snow mixed with fallen trees and man-made debris blocking the road.

You think Crona could scale the mess himself, but it would make the climb perilous for the both of you with you on his back. You decide to search for another path, riding south alongside the cliffs to scout for a way up. The blizzard whips at your back, buffeting along the rock face and throwing needles of snow in every direction. You’re thankful the cliff leads into a forest, where you have a bit of respite from the weather.

The towering trees and plant life remind you of home, though you marvel over how everything here seems to stay green even under a thick coat of snow. Crona picks his way around rocks and shrubs as you crane your neck to find a path up the cliff face. Then, caught among the wind hissing through the creaking trees, you hear a scream.

You instantly draw your knife, urging your elk forward when he is reluctant to investigate. Crona bounds over a partially-frozen stream, and you direct him to round a jutting edge of the cliff as another terrified shriek breaks the air.

The source of the screaming is a woman who has dragged herself beneath a rocky overhang, gaunt and pale as a ghost. She frantically waves a torch towards something in a nearby tree, baring her teeth in equal parts panic and anger.

Crona stomps his feet, snorting and refusing to go any closer when neither he nor you can find the source of danger. You hurriedly slide off his back and dash to the woman, but when you shout, “What is it!? What’s out there?” she begins screaming fearfully at _you_ , waving fire in your face.

You stumble backwards, realizing you’ve slipped into your own language. Yanking the mask down your chin, you quickly say, “Friend! I am friend! Where is danger?”

Bewildered, the woman gapes at you before giving her head a shake and once more threatening the trees with her torch. “A _ghost_! There’s some phantom o-or _demon_ in there and I saw its **eyes** ,” she cries, struggling to scoot along the ground to get further away-- you realize her ankle is bent unnaturally, and her left arm is worse.

“Demon?” You are already well-acquainted with those. You peer into the trees, stalking closer with your knife at the ready. “Showing self now, monster!” you shout.

Nothing appears. Looking over your shoulder, you glance at the injured woman, but she suddenly points behind you with the torch, wearing a wordless look of horror. When you whip back around, you are nose to nose with an unearthly face emerging from the trunk of a tree, skin like leathery bark and eyes made of empty knot-holes.

_“Aaahh!”_ You instinctively swipe at it with your blade and are surprised at how easy it is to cleave off the entire bottom of its face. When the half falls to the ground, it looks no longer like a mouth and chin, but mere leaves and twigs, smoldering as if in a fire. You backpedal, unsure what to think and unwilling to be caught so close to the thing again.

Those empty eyes blink placidly before what’s left of the creature’s face sucks itself back into the trunk of the tree. _“Good day to you, too,”_ it says, an edge of irritation lacing its otherwise bland voice.

Your eyebrows nearly reach the sky as you watch a disfigured and gangly man-- or something that had once been a man-- pull himself out of the tree. The further out of the trunk he is, the less barklike his skin becomes. His eyes are no longer knotholes when he is finally standing on his own legs, but while one iris is an unassuming grey, the other is a blank socket, a faint, glowing stream of light smoking out of it.

He says, voice somewhat reedy, _“Do you always attack before introductions?”_

The woman behind you shrieks and throws her torch at him.

 

\\\

 

Her name is Elizabeth, and she is terrified of ghosts. To get her up on Crona’s back had been a daunting task, as the tree-man had to help you lift her up there, and the woman had not been keen on being touched by the supernatural.

“I don’t believe this is the way to Iron Town” she slurs, drowsy and painless enough to speak to the source of her terror after the bit of Joy’s Tears you’d convinced her to drink when you'd splinted her broken limbs.

“You are correct. In fact, Iron Town would be north and west of here,” he says, plodding forward through the forest with a lethargy that makes following him while leading Crona behind you difficult. “We are going to my hut.”

Elizabeth is not happy with this at all, and you’re not pleased yourself. “I have no desire to go to your hut, _sir,_ or _whatever_ you are--”

“Oh, I am human,” he says, the glowing tail of his eye trailing behind him.

“And I’m the Empress,” Elizabeth replies, unamused.

The strange man stops his gradual plodding, taking a moment to raise a bony hand up to his chin-- it has apparently grown back, undamaged-- stroking it with a thoughtful hum. He then looks over his shoulder at the woman behind you, the light in his empty eye swirling with a life of its own.

He offers, “Well, I am no phantom, at least,” and turns back around to continue slogging through the snow. Curiously, his entire person seems to take on a frosty appearance, ragged clothes and all. “It is a long trek to Iron Town without the road, and I doubt you would survive the trip in your current condition. I may look like this now, but I was once a surgeon for Aranei Palace.”

Elizabeth hesitates at this. “Forgive me for not thanking you until _after_ I’ve decided you aren’t planning to eat my soul.”

“Fair,” the man says, that strange tail of light twirling again as if amused. “And so, to the hut.”

You don’t know what a ‘hut’ is, but you hope it isn’t far, given the rate the three of you are travelling. “What is name,” you ask.

“I am Stein. You may call me Stein.” His silvery hair goes powder-white as he talks, as if the very snow he trudges through is trying to absorb him. “And you are?”

“Maka.”

“Your clothes tell me you are a long way from home, Maka. Grigori tribe?”

“Y-yes,” you reply, surprised and alarmed that this strange man knows your village. You stumble as you attempt to direct Crona to dip his antlers beneath a low-hanging branch.

Before you can ask him anything about it, he says, “Oh, Marie will really like you.”

Warily, Elizabeth lowly asks, “Who’s Marie?”

“She should be here by now,” Stein says, the glowing tendril floating about his head now angular and agitated. “I told her where to meet us, but she’s somewhat sluggish in the cold season-- oh, here she comes--”

You startle, drawing your knife when you hear a large crash in the thick brush. Behind you, Elizabeth screams atop Crona, and though you are too anxious to do much more than notice it, the elk is surprisingly docile, calm as can be when a sizable brown bear comes barrelling through snow-covered shrubs. You hastily back away, pushing the elk behind you.

Then the bear _speaks._ “If you would simply keep that bell on, I would not have any issue finding you,” she says, swiping stray twigs and debris from her hindquarters with giant paws.

“I am precisely where I said I would be. It is your appalling sense of direction that needs addressing.”

The bear shakes her fur with a displeased grunt. She turns her head to peer behind Stein, and you notice she, too, is missing an eye-- though where hers should be is simply scarred over with no ghostly things drifting out of it. “These are they?” she asks, excited.

“Of course, more kindred,” Elizabeth mutters, apparently recovered from her initial terror. After a pause, she nervously adds, “...Were we expected?”

Stein slowly climbs tortoise-like onto Marie’s back. “Yes. We knew when you’d come.”

The bear shows her bottom teeth in an approximation of a smile. “Welcome to Raskogr,” says Marie, congenial.

It’s not until you are performing the Bloodless Bow, mindlessly replying, “Sorry for intruding,” that you realize the bear has spoken in the Old Ones’ language of your home. You whip your head up with a gasp, and Marie laughs, her strong shoulders rattling Stein atop her back.

“Heeeyyy,” drawls Elizabeth, tongue still heavy with medicine, “Common, please. Com- _mon!”_ Her mouth twists into a moue. “Don’t wanna be left out. _”_

 

\\\

 

\\\

Travel is considerably faster with Stein on the bear. “He tends to merge with everything he touches if he isn’t concentrating. That’s why he’s so slow,” Marie says, pushing through a thick patch of brambles with little effort. You have to lead Crona and Elizabeth around it.

You look back over your shoulder to make sure Elizabeth doesn’t slide off the elk when Crona has to hop over a rocky dip in the earth. “Is becoming bear?” you curiously ask, because it does not appear the man is growing fur or claws.

“Because Marie has a soul, I cannot resonate with her without her consent,” Stein says, unfazed by thorns as he passes through them like water, “She keeps me in one piece, as it were.”

Elizabeth makes a worrisome noise in the back of her throat, gesturing to her right eye with her good hand. “I think you’re missing a few bits, to be perfectly honest.”

“Re-zon-ate?”

Marie explains in your native language. “Hmm, it is similar to uniting-- of echoing and sharing a combined existence with another. Stein does this with anything he touches.”

“And you?”

“If I allow him to, yes,” she replies. Then, in Common, “Just a left here--”

“A right,” Stein corrects.

Marie turns around with a mighty yawn, breath clouding in the chill air. “--and then we’ll have a warm stew and a good night’s rest,” she says, just as a loud voice cuts through the forest.

“STEIN!”

More to herself than anyone else, Elizabeth says, “W-wait… I know that voice?”

The bear and strange man continue plodding forward, unperturbed, and as you follow them around a twisting path through tall trees, you see a tiny wooden house tucked into the side of a rocky hill. You hear a crashing through the undergrowth that's even louder than when Marie appeared, and you brace yourself for whatever strange creature approaches, hand at the hilt of your knife.

You watch, breath wedged in your throat, as a large white wolf bounds out of the trees and lands atop the hill, a man in furs and leather on his back.

The wolf is not as large as Asura had been, but there is no mistaking the creature for what it is; the beast is another _god_. Though this is your first time seeing it, something about the wolf enrages you, voices you do not want to hear twisting in your ears.

“There you are,” the man calls out, one hand tangled in the wolf’s fur as it leaps down from the hill and pads over to Stein and Marie. “Has Mother been h--”

_“YOU!”_ Elizabeth howls, Crona startling from her voice. “You’re the one who attacked us!”

Upon seeing you, the elk, and Elizabeth, both the wolf and the man’s lips pull back into snarls. The man’s teeth are nearly as sharp as the god’s. He reaches behind his head to slide forward a skull headpiece, covering his face. “You are not welcome here,” he growls, pointing a spear towards the three of you. “Leave!”

“Actually, we’ve already--” Marie tries to say, but the large wolf gathers himself into his legs and makes a leap for Crona, fangs gleaming.

It’s your village all over again, and fear and anger well up in you so instantly that you have no chance at containing it. You have one friend left in this world, and you will not allow him to be eaten by a giant wolf, god or not. The parts of your skin that were touched by Asura's blood awaken as you dash directly into the wolf’s path.

The light dies in your eyes, the forest dimming away as the demon pushes down any part of you that isn’t rage into oblivion. As Asura wraps his hatred around your soul, you catch the briefest glimpse of his resentment towards the gods of Raskogr.

Using your voice, he _roars._

 

* * *

 

 

**_Mifune_ **

\\\

 

From the shadowy corner of the tavern, you listen for news-- particularly anything that might suggest Star Clan knowing there’s an unclaimed kindred hiding in their territory. You hear nothing like it, thankfully, though you do catch some rumors of the Warbringer reaching for more power through a ghastly experiment with a pair of kindred sisters. It also seems the road to Iron Town has been blocked by a supply caravan accident.

The latter is only good news. Few will be bothered to follow you up the Cliffs in this weather, and the less anyone sees Angela this close to White Star’s home, the better.

Melded to your shoulder, the girl’s tail absently curls as her eyes flit to opposite directions, observing the surroundings. A spider, having made its home in the warm, low ceiling, drops down to the table, crawling near your meal.

“Why didn’t you kill that man,” she says softly before her long tongue shoots out in the blink of an eye, slapping the spider and popping it into her mouth with a tiny snap. “You coulda taken him, but you let him have the paper!”

You growl your disapproval. Her tongue hadn’t been invisible like the rest of her, and you casually glance at the rest of the tavern’s patrons to see if they’d noticed anything. “Manners,” you remind her. When the noise of the room is at its highest, you murmur, “I did not give him what he wanted.”

“What?”

“I hope you properly memorized the shopping list,” you say before taking a sip of your ale.

Your heart feels lighter from her tinkling laughter, feeling her crawl beneath your hood to warm up against your neck. “You tricked him!” she giggles, pleased.

“Mm.” You’re glad she doesn’t press her previous question-- you hope to show her that one does not have to kill simply because one is adept at it. That being said, you aren’t sure why you let the Clan boy live, yourself. What had deterred you? His injuries? His sloppy attempts at defending himself?

You finish and pay for your meal, Angela whispering to you the things you ask to buy from the innkeep.

“Sure you won’t be needin’ a room?” the man asks, giving you a dubious look. “You cain’t be goin’ out in that storm, and at _night.”_

You carefully stow the supplies into your bag. “I’ve no time for leisure.”

The innkeep bids you farewell with the eyes of a dead fish, clearly not anticipating seeing you alive in the future. “Safe travels. Watch out for the Nightwalker.”

You pause. “...My thanks,” you reply, giving a brief bow. You wonder if he refers to the Night Stag you are supposed to hunt.

“The fat men by the fire said the road is blocked,” Angela says once you are outside in the icy winds.

The girl had listened well. “Yes.”

She says, hopeful, _“_ If the path is too hard, I will burn it for you.”

You find yourself cracking a small smile, suddenly glad of her company though she had disobeyed you and sneaked out of the palace to tag along. “We shall see. How much of a feeble old man do you take me for?”

“You shouldn’t’ve given him the horse,” the girl pouts. More seriously, she adds, “Wasn’t he a cannibal? He was with the other one, at that other town. You killed **him.”**

It appears you won’t get around this subject after all. As you think on how best to answer her question, it occurs to you what had made you spare the assassin’s life. He told you Imperials never let the enemy live, but in your experience, neither would Star Clan-- yet he’d taken Angela by the tail and held her as a hostage instead of a snack. “What kind of cannibal would set you free?” you ask.

The girl hums to herself at that, stumped. “I still don’t like him,” she sniffs.

 

\\\

 

Her Song she uses for calling fire is the story of the water beast, whose touch is only cool in deep oceans. Her family had translated it for her, once, and she had told you its meaning: the moment the beast is ashore, his skin sets everything to flame, leaving burns eternal.

When the climb up the road becomes too perilous, Angela melts a path through, broken wagon wheels and fallen trees going up in ash. She sings the tune a shade more forlorn, now, and you think she must have realized the water beast and the salamander who left the Dead Path were the same god.

It feels as if the two of you are the last souls in the world, the white swirling of the storm whipping about as Angela sings from inside your cloak. Her voice makes the spirits in the earth hum in reply, coaxing them with a power you haven’t seen in kindred since before the war.

You wonder if there are stories sung about girls like Angela-- if there is a Song for her, warning others of her might.

You’re reminded of embers and hellfire. “Enough,” you say over the wind. Her voice has been going hoarse, and you shouldn’t be relying on a nine year old girl in the first place. Her fires die the moment she stops singing, the blizzard burying it all in freezing darkness.

“I’m _fine_ ,” she says, clearing her throat. “It’s too snowy-- you’re gonna freeze!”

Being the reptile out of the two of you, she is far more likely to die from exposure before you do. Even curled against your neck, she can hardly keep her temperature. “I survived worse than this long before you came around. Rest.”

_“I don’t **need** to rest!”_ Smoke breezes past your ear and the girl appears before you, hands angrily clenched at her sides.

“Angela,” you say sternly, but she doesn’t react to that voice anymore. “Angela, _stop.”_  You are blatantly ignored. The girl attempts to stomp ahead, the snow nearly to her waist, and then, in irritation, she flings out her hands and sings something new.

The air around her seems to _bend,_ snow instantly evaporating when it falls near her. Small pinpricks of light spark near her hands, and then you are blinded by a fireball blinking into existence, crackling loud enough to drown out both Angela’s voice and the whipping winds.

Heart in your throat, you watch as the spell flies from her hands, barreling through snow and earth with such speed that it sucks the air from your lungs. The blast is powerful enough to uproot entire trees and knock them to the sky, snowdrifts vaporized into mushrooming clouds of steam as its force propels the girl backward and knocks her painfully into your legs.

Blood flooded with panic, you grab her and roll away from a falling, _flaming_ pine tree. On hands and knees, you shield her from other burning debris, pine cones melting divots in the snow.

You have sworn to keep foul language away from her, so all you can do is simply _glare._

She’s shivering, clinging to you with wide eyes. “...It was Maaba’s, Kim taught me it,” she squeaks, looking around you at the wreckage. She nervously babbles, “It’s the Song of the Screeching Wyvern, I didn’t _know, Mifune! I didn’t--”_

The ground beneath you gives an alarming lurch under your hands and knees. Angela’s mouth shuts with a snap. You hear a rumbling, gut-shaking thunder, and you pick up the girl and **run.**

“What’s that noise,” she struggles to say while jostling in your arms.

_“Transform.”_ Whether she obeys because she hears the urgency in your voice, or she sees what’s following you, you have no way of knowing.

The avalanche catches you like a tsunami.

 

\\\

 

“He’s over here,” you think you hear someone say, and you force your eyes to slide open. The sky is dark and crisp above you, storm passed, a mess of stars painting the heavens. Your eyes drift down.

There’s a cat on your chest.

“Mifuneeee,” Angela warbles, kneeling beside you with her tiny hands fretfully touching your face. “A-are you dead? It was an accident, I didn’t mean to!”

Your head pounds behind your ears. “M’fine,” you mumble.

Frightened tears running down her puffy face, she throws herself around your neck, nearly choking you. Raising a hand, you gingerly pat her back.

She has dragged you beneath an outcropping of rock, carefully keeping you out of sight. You’re proud of her. “You alright?”

She nods, sniffling loudly in your ear. Picking up her head, she looks at the cat lounging on your chest, fur puffed for warmth. The feline is nearly completely black save for a scarred patch of pink, hairless skin on one forepaw.  “A kitty found us,” she informs you.

“I see that.” It looks rather well-kempt for a forest creature. Perhaps it is a town cat.

“Do you live in Iron Town, Miss Kitty?”

The cat looks at the girl and blinks. Angela has a way with animals-- you’ve determined it to be a kindred talent. She and the feline exchange a few silent glances that you are too exhausted to begin to rationalize. You hurt everywhere.

“Mif, can you get up? I think she’ll show us the way,” Angela hesitantly says. “...I promise I won’t blow up any more stuff,” she adds hastily, voice still thick from crying.

The cat hops off your chest when you creak your way upright. Arachne’s voice comes to you then, the phrase ‘worse for wear’ on an endless loop in your weary mind. You are once more reminded you are too old for this kind of work.

Angela offers you her shoulder to help you stand. After you habitually check your requirements-- sword, bag, child-- you give the girl a close-lipped smile of reassurance and hold out a hand. The worry in her faces eases a little when she takes it.

Gesturing to the cat, who looks grateful to get out of the snow and perch atop her head, Angela pulls you forward. There are many things about being led by a nine year old and a housecat up a mountain and through an ancient forest that might force you to consider how strange your world has become since you found this lizard girl in her den, but for the moment you must concentrate on being alive, or at least conscious enough to put one foot in front of the other.

This is all your mind can focus on for some distance, until you see lanterns lighting up the night, the imposing walls of Iron Town sprawling before you. You’ve stopped just inside the shadows of the forest, before the guard at the gate has a chance to see you. Belatedly, you realize the girl is tugging on your cloak, trying to get your attention.

“Mifune, I’m gonna hide.” The cat jumps off her head, bounding away to the fortress with a little mew. _“Thanks Miss Kitty,”_ Angela stage-whispers before giving you an openly concerned look. “Are you hurt?”

“I’ll be alright.”

“I’m really, really, _really_ sorry.”

“I know.”

Still apologetic, she smokes into her other form, but before you can see it, she disappears. You’re so numb with cold and exhaustion that you do not feel her if she climbs on you.

“We can’t trust anyone,” she says before you can. “...Except kitties.” You huff a tired laugh.

You trudge to the gate of Iron Town and are met by a young man wearing a full set of mail and leather armor, with a helmet bearing horns like a bull. He appears far more alert and agitated than any guard has a right to be at this time of night.

“From where do you hail,” the guard demands, his spectacles glinting under his ample helm.

You carefully retrieve the missive from your cloak pocket, presenting it to him. “I act as emissary for the Empress Arachne, here to speak with Lord Sephtis.”

The man looks over the paper rather swiftly for a guard, you think. His posture reads as one who has studied combat tirelessly, always poised on the edge of action. He snorts loudly through his nose somewhat like a horse, and says, “We have no intentions of making any deals with Arachne, nor do we open our gates to the Empire or its allies.”

You slowly blink, glancing back the way you came and taking a long breath. “It’s a long way back.”

“Must be tough, working for the Empress,” the guard replies, tone dry as dust.

_“You let Mifune in right now!”_ Angela shouts, giving the guard a swift kick where his armor is weakest. You had somewhat expected this, but you still sigh.

**“Kindred--”** the man wheezes in surprise, folding over but refusing to go down on his knees. Angela waggles a transformed chameleon tongue in his direction before turning on her heel and darting into the town. “Wait, you ca-- _urrrmfgh,”_ he groans. Still bent over, you find that he wishes murder upon you with only his eyes.

You give a faint shrug. “I will help find her if you let me in,” you offer.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Black Star_ **

\\\

 

Raskogr Cliff is in sight when the damned horse balks at a bridge and throws you into a river. You blame this event on the beastling girl back at the camp; she must have bewitched the stupid animal. Freezing water clenches around your lungs in millions of icy needles, and it takes you far longer to get back on land than it ought.

You find the horse has disappeared into the stormy night.

In a pocket of snow on the riverbank, you lie shivering and unable to recall a time you have ever felt this weak. You know you must find shelter out of the wind soon, or you’ll freeze to death-- or worse, Ivory will find and kill you for simply being pathetic; she is assigned to be the liaison between you and White Star, so she can’t be far.  

You force yourself to your feet, though you hardly feel your legs at all. It’s difficult to find your breath. Trudging to the nearest line of trees at the base of the cliff, you collapse in an awful huddle in the forest, rattling so much you feel your teeth will shake out of your skull.

You have to hurry-- the mercenary and the Empress are after the Night Stag too. This is your chance. This is your stage. You were born for this.

Your legs do not move.

How can you come so close to your goal and not touch it? You cannot _fall_ here like this, so empty. You want to carve out the eyes of gods, to leave the Clan to rot in your shadow as you reach up and write your name in the heavens.

You are face down in the snow, but when you open your eyes, the night sky stretches before you. There are no stars shining as it draws you up in its darkness. You see nothing. You hear nothing. But you smell something faint-- a quiet scent that you wouldn’t notice if the night hadn’t swallowed you first.

Flowers made of blood unfurl from your wounds.

 

\\\

 

**_“Who are you,”_** you demand hoarsely, your daggers criss-crossed like shears against the pale throat of a disheveled and wide-eyed man you have pinned to the floor. **_“Where is this place?!”_**

This is not how an assassin should collect information upon waking up in unfamiliar surroundings. You wonder why it takes you so long to realize this-- where had your mind been until this moment? You shake your head, trying to clear your swirling vision.

The man, who looks not much older than you, sports a splinted wrist on his left while his right presently has a firm grip around a pistol pressed to your chest. “I am Thane, son of Sephtis. You are in Iron Town,” he says placidly.

Taking several breaths and blinking sweat from your eyes, you spit, “What?”

 

\\\

 

Iron Town is the very last place you should be. It is a miracle Sephtis’s son is dimwitted, because your face should be well-known here by now given all the raids you’ve led against their cross-country caravans. Perhaps the cut on your face disfigures you more than you’d realized.

Thane is the typical, kind-hearted idiot one would expect to find in a cozy place like this. He carries himself the way all self-important men who have never stabbed someone dead do. You’ve told him your name is ‘Blade’, and he believes the story you made up to explain the _supply list_ that _goddamn mercenary_ had apparently given you.

“Your father is a weaponsmith, you said?” Thane asks casually, looking over a veritable sheaf of reports in his lap.

You laugh, feeling light. You know not how you came to Iron Town, but you do know they have a good supply of opium and are not afraid to use it on the injured. “My sire forges far too many. They lay about everywhere, rusting, unless Star Clan comes by and finds a use for them.”

“I am sorry to hear they cause your family trouble,” he says, so genuinely sober you want to laugh again. “Our own supplies are running low, what with the pass blocked, but I will not send you back down empty handed.”

The way he says this gives you pause, though your mind is too fogged to pinpoint why. “I’ve nothing to repay you with.” You blink. “Uh...my lord.”

“I am sure we will think up something,” he says, sounding vaguely amused. A knock sounds at a door to your right, and he responds with, “Enter.”

As a woman with golden hair walks in with a basket of supplies, you can’t help but ask Thane, “These are your quarters?” There’s only one bed, and you woke up in it.

He gathers his reports, carefully stowing them inside his robes. “When the salamander attacked, he left behind many wounded. Our sick room is rather full,” he says, somewhat distant. Gesturing to the woman, he says, “This is Lady Medusa, our trusted healer. She has been nursing your wounds, though I suppose you remember nothing of that. Please take care not to kill her.”

“R-right,” you awkwardly mutter-- how do common folk display deference, again? “Sorry.”

Thane gives a prim nod to you and the woman. “I must attend to another matter. Good day,” he says as he leaves.

Once the door is shut, Medusa drags a stool over to your bed, spreading her dark-colored dress and sitting tidily. “How are you feeling?”

Considering you are in the sleeping quarters of a man who would probably have you executed if he knew your identity, you think you’re doing swell. “Good, actually. How long have I been here?” You ought to contact Ivory and give some kind of status report-- you’ve managed to accidentally infiltrate _Iron Town,_ of all places.

“This will be the third evening since you were found. Please drink this,” she says, pulling a small vial out of her basket and handing it to you.

You knock it back and nearly choke on your own tongue. You don’t know exactly what she’s given you, but you know poison when you taste it. Clutching desperately at your throat, you fall against the headboard, fire shrieking through your veins. To your horror, the pain dulls almost instantly, your limbs numb and unresponsive.

“Now that we are alone,” Medusa says with narrow eyes, “let me welcome you to my city, Star Clan.” She viciously yanks away the dressings on your shoulder with little warning, and no amount of opium can dull the effects of that kind of violence.

_“What the **hell,** ”_ you gasp, reeling. What you would give to _choke her_ right now--

She throws the soiled dressings to the floor with an ugly slop. “You’ve taken a decoction of venom from a snake I sincerely promise you will not have found anywhere else in the world. This,” she says, pulling another vial from her basket, “is the antivenom. And _this,_ ” she then says, holding up one of your daggers, that _damned wench,_ “is _not_ the antivenom. So tell me, what is a son of the Warbringer doing in Raskogr?”

This reminds you of your sire and his answerless questions. You sneer, mouth tingling from poison. “I dunno what you’re talking about, witch.”

Medusa leans very, very close to your face, savoring the knowledge that you cannot even lift a finger to her. She hisses, “Thane may be a fool but I am not, so do not conjure up another paltry story, _Black Star._ ” She sits back on the stool, opening a jar of some pungent cream you want nothing to do with, and says, “While I am hospitable to enemies of my sister, Arachne--”

_“Eibon’s SHIT,”_ you grit through your teeth as she mashes the cream into your shoulder none too gently. She’s the Empress’s _sister?_

“--I will not take kindly to White Star interrupting my carefully laid plans. Now. Tell me why you’re here, and I will not hand your head on a plate to your Clan.”

They’ve already fallen for that one once, but you don’t mention your previous death. You need to come up with anything to keep her mouth shut long enough for you to finish what you came here to do. And you must do this quickly enough to save yourself from becoming completely paralyzed.

“You’re usurping Sephtis?”

Her eyes narrow at the change in subject, but she is clearly too smug with her own treachery to withhold its details. “The man is nearly dead thanks to my venom. His son is in the palm of my hand, and he will soon follow his father into the grave.”

You think Arachne’s sister would fit really well in Star Clan, honestly.

The first thing that comes to your mind blurts from your mouth. “The Empress will try to convince Sephtis to kill the Deer God and bring her his head. She’s sending a mercenary-- _a damn good one--_ with hair like straw--”

Medusa’s lips twist into a half-smile, regarding you as one would an ignorant child. “I have already tended to a man with light hair, sent by Arachne. This is old news, _Blade_ , and does not explain your presence at all.”

You scowl. “So you know the terms? The protected trade routes and fancy horses and all that?”

She waves a hand, unimpressed.

“I am here to give Sephtis a better offer. Or _you_. It matters little to the Warbringer who makes the deal as long as they can deliver.”

Face carefully blank, Medusa re-dresses your shoulder with fresh linen, taking care to hide your tattoo. “What offer is this?”

“You needn’t protect your caravans if we’re allied, for starters. And you’ll run out of iron here eventually-- Death’s Table is sitting on a massive mine, just waiting to be worked. We have livestock that thrives in harsh climes. And,” you smile, though only half your mouth obeys, “we have a knack for murder, in case you want someone nearby _assassinated,_ say.”

With a gleam in her honeyed eyes, a smile slithers across the woman’s face.

 


	5. risk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Thane_ **

\\\

 

Every decision you make seems to put your home at more risk. Not only is the Warbringer’s son a guest in Iron Town, but now an Aranei swordsman has joined as well.

Claws digging into your skin because you lack the padded armor Ox has, Harvar perches on your shoulder, looking down at the paper on the table and crow-muttering in anger. You have already heard about this missive-- Ox summarized it when you made accommodations for the kindred girl and her caretaker.

“I trust my healer has seen to you well,” you say, gesturing to Medusa, who had escorted the concussed man to your office and now lurks near the doorway. “A miracle you survived that avalanche.” Even more a miracle that you hadn’t been caught in it yourself.

The swordsman bows his bandaged head. “Yes, my lord, she has. Thank you.”

“A question, first: what does Arachne want with the head of the Nightwalker?”

Mifune’s face seems a shade more ragged. “It is not for me to say.”

Ox huffs loudly at that, armor creaking as he shifts his weight.

“I must discuss these terms with my advisors. You and the young girl are welcome to stay until you are well, but do not consider my hospitality as any sign of agreement or acquiescence on this matter.”

“Understood, my lord. We are grateful.”

The moment Medusa sees the man out, Harvar darts off your shoulder and twists into smoking shadows to stand opposite the table. “Why are we even discussing this,” he says, hidden under his cowl.

“It is a tempting offer,” says Ox, picking up the missive and frowning at it again. “For idiots.”

You absently fiddle with the splints on your broken wrist. “You don’t think she’d keep her word?”

Harvar pushes the hood off his head and blurts, “ _That’s_ the part that troubles you?”

“She’d keep her word to the letter,” Ox replies over the kindred. “She’d pamper you and then ask for something in return, like borrowing our riflemen, say. And then turn them on us and claim it’s for our protection.”

You nod, glad to have your own suspicions affirmed from someone else. “Of course that’s not what troubles me,” you say gently to Harvar, hoping to ease his agitation. “What truly _is_ the Nightwalker? Why would she want his head?”

The corners of his mouth pulling into a grim line, Harvar says, “Killing Masamune would not be like killing Asura. The Nightwalker balances the scales; think for a moment what kind of chaos would happen if a god of death were destroyed. As for his head-- I don’t know.”

“Perhaps I can give some insight?” asks Medusa from the door, returned from escorting the swordsman. You feel Harvar and Ox both give you cautious glances, but you wave her in.

“I did not come to eavesdrop,” she assures the two of them, rubbing her hands together to ward off the chill from outside. “First, I must warn you of my sister. For many years, she has done unspeakable experiments on kindred, farseers, and even Maaba-- rest her soul-- to escape the hands of death.”

Medusa glances meaningfully over to Harvar, whose eyes are uncharacteristically wide. _“Thane,”_ he says, whipping his head to you. “We cannot let her take him--”

“Why, what use is his head?” Ox demands.

“It is believed the Deer God has immense powers of healing and everlasting life,” says the healer, pausing to let that sink in. To you directly, she says, “The crow is right-- you must not allow the Nightwalker to fall in Arachne’s hands. My sister intends to become a god.”

 

\\\

 

No longer able to be left alone, Sephtis had been moved to the long building that serves as Iron Town’s hospital. He and all the others cursed by Asura’s burns are closed off behind thick curtains, separated from those with more mundane ailments.

Only you and Medusa are allowed to pass through the curtains, but you are the only one present when your father becomes violent. He’s unable to control his limbs and laughter, flailing and knocking over dishes and vials, and your broken wrist doesn't exactly help when you try to restrain him.

 ** _“Somebody, help!”_** You fear no one will investigate, assuming your cry to be the crazed hallucinations of a cursed patient, or perhaps too fearful of being infected by Asura’s curse to look between the curtains at all. **_“Anyone, please!”_** you shout over your shoulder, one of your father’s elbows knocking you nearly dead-center in the ear. Bright lights spark in your vision as you wince, but then you notice someone pushing the curtain aside and striding into the room.

It’s the swordsman. Mifune stops in his tracks when he sees the state of the room, eyes slowly scanning over the numerous patients sporting stained bandages and black burns. His face does not show any trace of surprise or fear, but his shoulders rise and fall as his breathing picks up speed. Then he sees you grappling with Sephtis in the far corner of the room. He steps forward.

 _“No,”_ you yell, trying to use your weight to keep your father still. “Please get Medusa!” You want to explain he isn’t allowed in the room, but you’re preoccupied and have just been slapped in the mouth. You’re relieved when the swordsman quickly spins on a heel and leaves with purpose.

Many of the cursed are rousing, the hospital filling with a chorus of wailing as Sephtis’s deranged laughter sets everyone else off in fits of hysterics. With only one fully functioning hand, you struggle to prevent your father from hurting you as well as himself, and you are grateful when help arrives. You look to Medusa, but are surprised to find the straw-haired swordsman instead.

Before you can protest, he says, “Angela went to fetch her,” and firmly pries Sephtis’s hands away from your clothes.

Well, if the man is not afraid of becoming infected, you’ll accept his help for the moment. “Hold him down,” you hear yourself say, calm and authoritative as if the black blood seeping from under your father’s mask and fingernails isn’t the least bit disturbing. Mifune helps you secure Sephtis’s arms and legs to the cot, and by the time you are finished, Medusa has arrived.

She comes with a draught of some kind, but your father refuses to drink it. He only calms after you press a medicated sponge to the mouth and nose holes of his mask, its fumes dragging him into a deep sleep.

Once Sephtis is pacified, you help Medusa with the countless other patients in the room, calming or drugging them until the din of the cursed has died down to an acceptable murmur of agonized groans. It takes the better part of an hour, and you find the swordsman has left at some point during the ordeal; you will have to seek him out and thank him for his assistance later. You tiredly sit on a stool next to your father, arm and ribs aching. You gently wipe away the black blood from his hands with a damp cloth.

Beside you, Medusa is once more working, cutting long, spindly logs of rolled herbs and glycerine into swallowable pills. Quietly, she says, “I fear this sickness is beyond my humble knowledge, Thane.”

You nod. All the knowledge in the world is likely not enough to doctor a curse from a god. You do not blame her for your father’s lack of improvement.

When you lift your father’s mask, there is so little left of his features that you are hard-pressed to remember what he had looked like, before. You gingerly dab at his face with the cloth, though too much agitation only makes the black skin crack and bleed further.

Is this what Sephtis deserved for raising his hand to the gods? Had he earned this torturously slow death with his decisions? You do not wish to be heedless of the forces in Raskogr, but it is unbearable to sit and watch your father suffer for making the choice to keep you and your people alive. You don’t know how right or wrong should look anymore.

Checking over her shoulder for any eavesdroppers, Medusa then leans slightly towards you, one hand near the edge of her mouth to dampen her voice. “I know I said we should keep the Nightwalker out of Arachne’s hands, but I wonder, my lord, if those healing powers might serve a better purpose?”

It would be a lie to say this thought hadn’t already swirled temptingly through your thoughts before now. You wonder if every decision one makes shapes one’s life, or if believing as much is to simply play into fate’s hands. In a hospital room filled with the ever-suffering consequences of angering the gods, you consider the price of the greater good.

You wipe your father’s mask clean and replace it.

 

* * *

 

**_Maka_ **

\\\

You remember an early memory of sitting by the fire pit; you’d spent most of your life by that fire, hadn’t you? When you learned Papa’s stories, or taught Tsugumi how to scale fish and shuck corn, it was always with flames warming your face. And it was by the fire that you have the last memory of your mother smiling.

You’d been listening to her animatedly tell a story to a small group of neighbors, making a joke you were too young to grasp, though you were laughing along anyway because you wanted to feel grown. While the other adults continued to laugh, you watched your mother’s smile suddenly evaporate from her face, her eyes going wide as she looked to the western sky.

“What troubles you, Suzume?” a man had asked. She did not answer. Skin going pale, she slid her hand up her shoulder and neck, fingers disappearing under her tawny hair. You cried out, alarmed, as she forcibly ripped out a fistful of it. When she brought her hand forward, her fingers were tangled with feathers.

You recall the shape of them so clearly, their fragile shafts gently curving out of the gaps between Mama’s fingers, tufts of white and brown and grey lit orange by the fire, but when you try to remember what color her wide eyes had been, before they would become as blue as the sky that stole her away, Asura takes the memory from you.

 _It is the gods who take,_ he tells you as you desperately grasp after the empty blank where your mother’s face had been. His thoughts runs through you, your blood teeming with bitter voices. _We are betrayed. Now we take from them._

There is power rushing in all parts of your body, your throat hoarse as you scream. He is no better than the other gods, taking your eyes so you know neither who you attack nor if they even stand a chance at surviving. What is happening? Where are you? What have you been doing?

You suddenly remember the forest and the strange people you have just met. You try to claim your rage back for yourself, but the demon’s hold on you is strong, and he keeps you far from the reach of the waking world.

What if you wake up from this only to find the blood of innocent people on your hands? You need Blade to punch you in the face. Maybe you should carve out your own eyes, blinding Asura once again--

Just as you think this, the demon’s anger is suddenly replaced by confusion. It’s a moment of weakness, and you seize it, shoving Asura to the depths while you reclaim your body. You gain control of your mouth with a gasp, choking out, “Wolves protect, lizards conserve,” as you open your eyes.

You are met with absolute darkness. Knife dropping from your hand, you cry out, vision burning with tears as you try to find anything to see. You fear you’ve truly cut out your eyes, but they are still there when you nervously touch your face. You slowly lower to your knees in the snow, feeling around with your hands and praying you don’t find anyone _else’s_ body parts.

“...Crona?” you ask the unforgiving dark.

Cold metal touches your cheek, and you turn to stone. “Do not move,” says a deep voice in the Old Tongue.

Swallowing thickly, that blade steadily tracing up your face, you say, “Please. Have I hurt anyone? Is my elk alright?”

The weapon carefully pushes back the hood you wear, the winter air chilling your head. You hear footsteps crunching through snow, and you gasp when warm hands touch your face. They tilt your head up, burning fingers gingerly pulling down your lower eyelids. You struggle to blink, staring into the dark while a cold breeze dries the tears your eyes. You hear Crona nicker somewhere to the right, but when you try to turn your head, those hands hold you still.

“Don’t,” the man growls in Common. You realize it is the one who was riding the wolf. “Hold still.” He tilts your head this way and that, then loudly announces, “Green.”

It’s Stein’s voice that drawls, “You can let her go, Tsubaki.”

You wince and yelp when the world snaps into painful existence, bright light reflecting off white snow. The man still holds you steady, and you blindly grasp his arms until you can see clearly again. Your eyes slowly focus on the stranger with fangs, a wolf’s skull nestled around his face. His cheeks are painted in streaks of red, bright as the ruby birds in your village, and you’re startled to see that his eyes match the hue.

He is not pleased to see you. Releasing you unceremoniously, he backs away, retrieving a polearm from the ground. He keeps this pointed at you, on guard. The wolf god pads up behind him, ears focused on your every movement.

Head free, you anxiously check your hands. The bandages you keep wrapped around them aren’t stained in blood, at least. Your eyes tear up with relief. Crona picks his way through the snow and presses his face into your chest, and you wrap your arms around him.

“Ah!” Abruptly, you pull away. Elizabeth is not on his back. “Liz!”

“I’m fine!” Over your shoulder, you see her held upright by a woman with hair as golden as the sun-- with that missing eye, she must be Marie. “A-are _you_ alright?”

Unable to answer that question, you give a vague shrug. Worried, you ask, “What happening? I hurting people?”

You turn back to the man with fangs when he says, “Tsubaki fell into your eyes. She stopped your rage.”

“Su-ba...?” You unthinkingly reach for your face, recalling that infinite darkness.

“We are unharmed,” says a voice like midnight. You bolt to your feet, Crona tossing his head in alarm. There is a figure standing in the corner of your eye, but when you turn to see it, it stays out of sight, forever in that far edge of vision.

“Who? What?” You turn in place, snow crunching under your feet.

Angrily, the man says, “That is what we should be asking!” It’s his turn to spin about. “Stein! Stop hiding or I will stop stealing coffee for you, coward! Why do you escort a demon through the Nightwalker’s forest?!”

You think you hear Marie snort behind you.

“She is no demon, though she bears the curse of one,” says that voice again, tingling in your ears. “This woman is Maka, of the Eastlands Grigori.”

This is twice today that someone has named the village that your father works to keep hidden from the world. “How knowing this? How knowing name?” you demand, warily backing into your elk’s neck.

There is no laughter, but the mysterious voice seems somewhat amused when it replies, “You are the Demonsbane. All the heavens whisper of you, daughter of the brightest winged.”

Everyone in the small clearing stands in stunned silence before the man with red eyes blurts, _“She’s **what?”**_

 

\\\

 

The man with the wolf skull lurks in the doorway to Stein’s hut, refusing to be in the house any longer than he must so long as you and Elizabeth are in it.

“Are you sure you won’t have some supper with us, Soul?” Marie asks, holding up a bowl of stew in her paws.

With a scowl, he replies, “I helped you bring the woman inside. You’ve asked enough of me.”

Marie looks at you and gestures to the man. “This is Soul-- he is part of the Wolf God tribe here. They protect the forest.”

You give a wary glance to Soul. He seems to hold a healthy disdain for humankind despite looking more like you than a wolf or a god. He huffs at your inspection, the bridge of his nose scrunching. To Stein, he asks, “Has Moro been here?”

Slowly but surely, Stein wraps Elizabeth’s ankle in a tight bandage. “She has not. I don’t suspect she will come for a few days.”

“You've seen this?”

“I have.”

Soul growls angrily, shutting the door behind him as he leaves without a word.

Sweating with pain, Liz says grips the edges of the cot she’s propped up in and says, “Wh-what does he mean? What have you seen?”

“Is seeing future, yes?” you ask, taking the bowl Marie now offers to you. “Talking with gods.”

On all fours, Marie walks the few short steps it takes to get to the door and slaps the latch shut with too much force. Her ears flatten, surprised. “Oops. But yes,” she says, returning to the cookpot on the wood stove, “Stein is from a long line of farseers. Some divine the future through meditation, dancing, or even simply by dreaming. ... _He_ can only see it when he’s looking through internal organs.”

Elizabeth’s complexion becomes green in the face. Leaning as far away from the man as she can, she asks, “So what you mean to say is, when you ‘knew’ we were coming, it was ‘cause you saw us in someone’s guts?”

“A pheasant, to be specific.”

You pause as you bring the bowl of stew to your lips, trying to remember what ‘pheasant’ means.

“How does one even discover such a talent?”

“When you have hallucinations every time you perform surgery on a wounded soldier, you begin to notice a pattern,” Stein says blandly. “The Empress tried to augment my farsight through various experiments, which is how I became… as I am.” He gestures vaguely to his hunched-over figure and bony limbs. “She ripped Maaba’s eye from her face and used it to manipulate the kindred to ‘bless’ me in various ways. Now my soul leaks out.”

You do not understand _every_ word Stein has just said, but you think you caught the majority of it, eyes widening. The young woman points a trembling finger at the trail of smoke coming out of Stein’s empty eye socket, unable to voice her question.

“Yes,” he answers. He then lifts a long sleeve up his forearm, another plume swirling out of his skin. “Here too.”

Elizabeth quietly presses her face into the wall with a groan. Marie says, “Actually it used to only be the one spot, but then the Brightwinged asked for Stein’s eye, so he gave it to her.”

Your fingers clench around the bowl in your hands. “You are knowing my mother?”

Looking for you over his thin shoulder, he says, “I cannot see very far, but piece by piece we have slowly been preparing for whatever it is that has made the gods stir. The Brightwinged shows me these glimpses of the future, and she showed me you.”

 

\\\

 

Four days later, Soul and his wolf-god brother, Wes, return-- though the man still refuses to come inside despite the lure of fried eggs.

“You’re letting all the heat out,” Liz complains, leaning towards the wood stove. Her cheeks are rosy, looking much better with food and rest. “I don’t like it any better’n you, so let’s just get the trip over with.”

Soul harrumphs.

Stein sips a steaming mug of coffee, his hand slowly melding into the ceramic. He hunches over like an ancient man, his soul squiggling out of his exposed arm. “It is only fair. It was your raid on the caravan that injured Elizabeth and separated her from her family. If you don’t want them in the forest, take them where they belong,” he says with a faint smile.

The other man grumbles, looking pointedly away and focusing on giving _you_ a displeased look because you have come to be on good terms with his giant wolf brother. The snow-white god squeezes his head into the too-small doorway and licks honey off your fingers with swipes of his tongue. You can’t feel the warmth of it, but it does tickle, a little.

The wolf doesn’t budge when Soul uses a shoulder in an attempt to knock him away. “Stop that licking, she is tainted.”

The wolf speaks in Common almost as poorly as you do. “Sister only having scars. Brother having scars, is not tainted.”

Soul sighs, rubbing his chest through layers of leather. “She is _not_ your sister.”

“Why?” the wolf argues then, this time in the Old Tongue, while accepting a fluffy biscuit from you. Loudly chewing, he says, “She is much nicer to me than you.”

“ _Stop_ eating everything! You are more pig than wolf.”

“’Stop, stop, stop’, that is all you ever say. A snail is more exciting than you. Besides, we should take them. We broke that woman’s leg and ...other leg.”

“ _Arm--”_

“Whatever.”

Annoyed at the switch in language, Liz groans. “They’re doing it _again.”_

“--and we owe nothing to humans! They shot Mother.”

“ _A_ human shot Mother, but it was not that one.” The wolf snuffles Soul’s face, much to his annoyance.  “Where are your eyes? Has Tsubaki blinded you as well?”

Rubbing his face with a hand, Soul pushes the god away and reverts to Common. “In any case, we did not come here to be travel guides. We want to know if you have seen Mother.”

Marie looks up from drizzling more honey over another biscuit. “Still can’t find her?”

Wes’s ears droop at this, a whine tinging his words. “We are thinking she comes here, so Stein can fish out the bad stone.”

“I am very sorry, boys, but Moro hasn’t come to see us,” Marie says.

Soul makes an angry noise in the bottom of his throat. “What is she _doing?_ If she lets it fester...”

“Moro is too proud to become a demon,” says Stein, staring intently at his coffee as he sets it on a table and attempts to separate from it. “Do not compare her to the likes of the salamander.”

“Ah--” You nearly drop your wooden plate of food, pieces of a puzzle suddenly fitting together. Hatred that doesn’t belong to you lurks just beneath the surface of your heart, and you hurriedly dig in your pockets for the black bullet that had started this journey of yours. You present it to Soul and Wes. “Being hurt by this?”

The wolf sniffs it, growl rumbling through the earthen floor of Stein’s home. Anger clouds Soul’s features. “More than hurt-- it might be killing her. Where did you get that?”

“Asura.” Simply saying his name aloud brings him nearer, and you mutter the virtues under your breath. “Please. Bringing me to man who is making this.”

Soul’s distrust of humans is evident in his glower. “Why?”

Glowing tail of smoke spinning with interest, Stein peers at you from his dining table. “I imagine our ‘demonsbane’ has a bone to pick with Iron Town.”

You do not understand what he means by picking bones, and neither does Elizabeth, evidently. Sipping a draught of Joy’s Tears sweetened with honey, the woman slurs, “None of this secret demon talk makes any sense, but this means you’re takin’ us to town, right?”

The red-eyed man growls and squeezes around his brother’s furry head to leave the doorway.

Wes’s ears perk behind him for a moment before his mouth falls open, tongue lolling. “That is meaning yes,” he says.

 

\\\

 

Soul and Wes lead you around the mountain and through the thick forests of Raskogr. They keep some distance ahead of you, Soul unwilling to share conversation though you are in want of anyone who can understand the language of the Old Ones. You do eventually have to call for his help getting Elizabeth off Crona’s back when she needs to relieve herself.

Afterward, as you help her limp back to where the others wait, the woman asks, “Why did you come rescue me, anyway? I’m just a brothel girl. I can’t repay you, you know.”

You furrow your brows, steadying the taller woman in the slick snow. “Word not knowing, br.. brothel?”

She laughs at that, which only makes you more confused. “A brothel is a place where men pay money to sleep between a woman’s legs.” When she sees how hot your face becomes, she says wryly, “Sure you don’t wanna leave me here?”

“No!” You can’t simply _abandon_ someone in need. The Western Territories must be even more barbaric than you’ve already believed. “I am helping because...” You are hard-pressed to express a reason for that in your own language, much less in Common. “Hurt. And alone. No people wanting alone.”

Very quietly, Elizabeth says, “There’s some truth to that.” You help her along a narrow animal trail, and Crona, Wes, and Soul come into view. The man looks like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth, though he still stands by your elk, waiting to help you with Liz. “Thank you, though. You and those weird people saved my life.”

“Ah--” That had never occurred to you, but you are suddenly glad to know you’ve been able to save a life rather simply spare it from your own violence. “W-welcome,” you nervously say. “Sorry I am demon. Being afraid for demons, yes?”

“You’re no demon, Maka,” Liz laughs. “You just gotta bad temper.”

You shake your head as the two of you walk to the rest of your traveling party. “No, I am danger! Near me is risk.”

Liz gives you a bright smile, her good hand stroking your elk’s winter coat. “Crona will protect me. Won’t you, kid?”

The elk blows through his nose, bending his legs and lowering to the ground. You and Soul help her climb on Crona’s back. Once Liz is secure and the elk is back on his feet, you’re surprised to see Soul walking nearby while Wes takes the lead.

“Anyway,” Liz says, hissing as she adjusts her splinted ankle for the ride, “That shadow was much scarier than you.”

“Oh! You are seeing it? I not.”

Elizabeth shivers at the mere thought. “Yeah. It kept changing shape, like some kind of _ghost.”_

 _“She,”_ Soul interjects, annoyed, “is no ghost. Tsubaki is the Nightwalker’s sister. They are the gods who rule this forest.”

“I’ve heard of the Deer God-- he's even _more_ frightening.”

“What’s there to be frightened of? He heals our injuries, and he bears our souls to heaven when we die.”

Elizabeth shakes her head vigorously. “Those are two _very_ different things! This place is too much for me and I’ll be glad to be out of it.”

“I am sure they will be glad when you are gone as well,” he replies blandly. Then, giving you a narrow-eyed glance over his shoulder, he asks, “Are you truly the daughter of the Brightwinged?”

You halt in your tracks, surprised not by the question but by the sudden anger that wells in you, and how unsure you are as to whether it belongs to you or the demon. Crona nudges your back with his nose, and you awkwardly resume walking. “...Yes. But, Mama not bird, before. Gods changing her into bird.” You carefully glance at Soul’s teeth, his wild-looking hair as white as his brother’s fur. You wonder if the gods have called him too.

“But she can change back, right? Like Marie does,” Liz asks.

You shake your head. “Flying away. I am not seeing her again.”

“Oh.” The woman frowns, back straightening with a sudden realization. “ _And_ you were cursed for killin’ that big demon that tore up everything? That’s cruel. Are the gods even on your side?”

Your eyes grow wide. It’s the first you have ever heard the words in the deepest part of your heart said aloud, but Soul says, “Of course they are,” walking unerringly forward. He scowls briefly at Elizabeth, clearly finding the notion ridiculous. “They chose her because they think she can carry the burden. The gods don’t make creatures suffer for sport-- that is something humans do.”

Wes stops at a line of tall trees, waiting for you and the others to catch up. Pointing his massive snout to the horizon, he says, “Big fire is burning again.”

Through the trees you see a great stretch of land freckled with snow-covered tree stumps. In its center lies the largest structure you’ve ever seen, sharpened logs erected around a tall fortress, plumes of white smoke billowing from its highest peak.

“We cannot take you any farther than this in daylight,” Soul says, glaring at the town in the distance. “They will shoot us, otherwise. You must walk the rest on your own.”

Elizabeth squeaks when Wes noses her and sniffs around Crona’s saddle bags. “There’s no food for you, you overgrown mutt!” she complains, wiping slobber off her good arm. She urges Crona into the clearing, out of reach of the god’s tongue. “Thanks for the escort, may we never meet again.” She waves. “C’mon, Maka, I wanna find my little sister!”

“Yes,” you call out in reply, then perform the Bloodless Bow to the wolf god and his human brother. “Thank you,” you say in the Old Tongue. “I wish you and your mother good health.”

“Ah, wait--” Soul shifts his weight uncomfortably while he and Wes exchange a glance.

“Shiny thing?” the wolf asks.

With a grunt, Soul pulls something out from under one of the many layers of fur he wears. “When we fought, you dropped this.”

You take a breath, recognizing the stiff bundle of leather Tsugumi had given you the night of your exile. There is a ragged gash, a glint of polished red wood peeking through the ruined leather.

You almost laugh. Tsugumi gave you something so ridiculously sacred you can hardly imagine the uproar she will have caused. Gingerly, you pull out a delicately carved piece of wood the length of your palm. It is inlaid with bits of loreheart, crystals glittering in the sun.

To your relief, it is not cut or cracked, its hollow center undamaged. Attached to one end is a length of braided cord, and you push back your hood so you can tie the cord around your neck.

Soul stumbles forward suddenly, his brother poking him in the back of the head with a wet nose. “Sorry,” he grumbles in Common, handing you the shredded leather. Then he asks in your language, “Um... Did I break it?” He seems genuinely concerned, though he tries to mask it.

“It is safe. Thank you.”

“What is it?” Wes asks, his vigorous sniffing blowing the ends of your short hair around.

“It is my tribe’s soul catcher. My betr-- my friend gave this to me when I was exiled. It is sacred... I wonder why she stole it?” You hold it between your hands, inspecting the tiny carved holes all along its length. A breeze blows across its end and makes a faint whistle. “You play it and call on the spirit world.”

“Play?”

You bring the instrument to your lips like you’ve seen the village chief do, cover a few of the holes with the pads of your fingers, and blow. Wes snarls and Soul hastily slaps his hands over his ears when a horrendous noise screeches out of the instrument. You cover different holes, hoping for some kind of improvement, but the sound only gets worse.

“Stop stop stop!” Soul shouts over your horrible playing.

 _“What the hell was **that?!”** _ Elizabeth cries from the clearing, your elk nervously tossing his head.

“S-sorry! It me!” You bow to Wes and Soul again, embarrassed. “Sorry. I am going now,” you blurt, tucking the soul-catcher under your clothes and rushing to catch up with Elizabeth.

 

\\\

 

You do not like Iron Town’s chief of guard. He has a pompous air, parading about in his armor with a black bird on his shoulder like some burly mystic man. You’ve been told his name is ‘Ox’, a word you are moderately sure is the same word for a stubborn beast of burden, which seems fitting.

The reunion between Elizabeth and her younger sister is a tearful one, and Patricia hugs you so tightly you nearly forget why you have come here. When you ask Ox if you may yet see the leader of Iron Town, he only says, “He is a very busy man. You must wait.”

You growl at him and his awful helmet. A woman named Blair takes it upon herself to show you around the town, eventually bringing you to the forge that stands at the heart of it. It reminds you, vaguely, of the fire pit back home, women working and singing a tune to keep them in a productive rhythm.

“These are my girls,” she says proudly. “Patti works here, and when Liz is well, she will too. We are so glad you found her-- Patti was sick with grief and we feared the worst.”

It is warm and stifling enough in the ironworks that you pull down your mask to breathe. “Happy to be helping,” you say, eyes roaming over the enormous forge and the women working to keep it lit. Your gaze falls on a corner of the building, marred with scorch-marks and newly-repaired walls. Something in you stirs, someone else’s memories lurking under your skin. “You are liking work?”

Blair’s catty eyes immediately see where you are looking. “Yes. We were all brothel ladies, once. Sephtis and Thane have paid our debts, so we now work here as free women. There is no place I would rather be.” She is as loyal to this town as any person in your tribe would be to your village. It sets your heart to turmoil.

Before you can ask anything else, Ox calls you over from the massive doorway. The bird on his shoulder inspects you with a shining eye for a moment before flying away. “I am seeing your chief now?” you ask.

“ _Lord,”_ the guard corrects. He doesn’t bother to answer your question, merely turning around and leaving without you. “Hurry up, then.” You follow him to a long building not far from the forge, and once you pass through its doors, you stop short.

The building is an infirmary. There are rows of bedrolls filled with injured villagers, and in one row you see Liz and her sister again, the former waving as you pass. You nod and trot to catch up with Ox, who passes by everyone to reach the rear of the room, where a thick grey curtain hangs. He holds open one side and gestures you in. “Do not waste his time,” he warns you with a growl.

Inside are even _more_ sick people, and it only takes the barest moment among them for you to realize they are just like you. All of them have bandaged limbs, some from head to toe with black blood seeping through the linens, all whispering thin echoes of the madness you hear in your head.

You see a dark-haired young man with white streaks at his temple standing in the furthest corner of the room. He waits patiently for you, a broken arm held inside his robes like a sling.

“I am Thane,” he says quietly as you approach. “You must be Maka. I thank you for delivering Elizabeth to us.” He bends low, whispering something into the ear of the man in the cot next to him, and then takes his arm from his robes and proceeds to gently pull a bone-white mask off the man’s face. “This is Lord Sephtis, my father. He is unwell, so I serve Iron Town in his stead.”

The lord’s face is as cursed as your hands-- dark as pitch, and cracked with the dry, cold air of winter. Black blood seeps through awful sores, and you know with horrible certainty that he cannot feel the warmth of his own breath.

Hatred threatens to cloud your eyes. Teeth grit, you pull the bullet that poisoned the salamander from your cloak. Your hand clenches around the stone as you fight the urge to destroy what’s left of Sephtis’s face. “He is shooting god with this?”

Wiping blood from the underside of the mask, Thane says, “Yes.”

The gods have led you across the continent to a cot, where the man who has ruined your life lies dying. You want nothing more than to rip him apart and burn the remains.

**“Why.”**

Thane motions with a hand to sit on a nearby stool, but your knees refuse to cooperate. He takes it for himself, instead. “My father created powerful weapons. He and his men felled the forest and built this place as a sanctuary for people to escape the war, and used our hand cannons to keep Star Clan and the Empress away. The town works the ironsands on the shoreline, trading the metal for supplies to stay alive.” He glances over your bandaged hands and it’s clear he knows you are like the other patients in the room. “Asura was furious.”

The curse rages in you, memories flickering behind your eyes. You can taste the smoke, can feel your crimson hands touching the walls of the city and painting it in fire, can hear the distinct sound of a bullet shot by this man's father entering your chest.

Thane says, “I hear you were the one who slayed the demon he became. I should like to thank you for the deed, but I fear doing so would be offensive to not only you but also the gods.” He gently replaces the mask on his father’s face. “The salamander was right in his anger for what we did to his home… though I do not think my father was wrong to save us from him.”

Your blood roars in your ears. “Shooting god, many lives destroying,” you accuse.

“Yes,” Thane replies, hand clenching around the splints on his wrist. “And it is our fault. Would that I were the Nightwalker and could give those lives back. Many people think we should slay the rest of the gods to bring peace, but I do not wish for us to be prosperous at the expense of more life.”

Your breath comes out in a ragged sigh. Soul had said you were chosen for this task, but you don’t know what it is. You identify with Asura’s agony yet you also see yourself too easily in these people loyal to their own, and the lack of evil to direct your hatred towards makes your insides pull apart.

“Maka, we have caused a catastrophe, but still I must ask you to not kill my father. Surely you know what it is to protect those dearest to you.”

The perfectly round bullet in your hand cracks, your cursed hand crushing it to dust. “I am not killing dying man,” you say hoarsely, desperate to keep yourself out of Asura’s reach. “I am protecting life, n-not... not **_taking--”_**

You whirl away, bolting past the guard and through the curtains, blundering through rows of the infirm to flee out the door. Your ears are filled with the screams of the girls in the forge, but that is Asura’s memory, along with the flames licking every wall, the felled battlements and charred soldiers. You slip along the slush outside the infirmary building, sliding to sit on an upended barrel and holding your head in your aching hands.

Despite having found the source of the disaster that brought the demon god across the continent to find you, you still _hear him,_ Asura’s hatred gnawing your soul to almost nothing.

You cannot swallow this fate the gods have given you.

“Bears are born from strength,” you groan into your hands. You screw your eyes shut, trying to block out all the demon’s demands for revenge. What comes after bears? You picture your father by the fire pit, his hands casting shadows like wings on a hanging cloth. Crows. “Crows are made from...”

You can’t remember.

 _“Crows are made from wisdom,”_ sings a high voice carried on the wind. You whip your face up from your palms and find a girl approaching you, eyes like the sky and frizzy, red-blonde hair twisting like an untamed flame. _“Wolves protect, lizards conserve. Deer live in gentleness, while sparrows breathe with hope.”_ Your head seems to clear dramatically with with her voice, the demon god’s many whispers fading away.

“You understand me?” you ask in the Old Tongue, but the girl only squints, face scrunched. Something seems familiar there, reminding you of one of the young girls in your village, maybe.

“What?” the girl says in Common. “D’you know what the lyrics mean? I memorized them but I don’t _really_ know the words.”

You blink. The girl sings the words so skillfully you are amazed she doesn’t understand any of it. “Yes. What is name?”

“Angela,” she says, bowing like a soldier would to a king. “You brought Patti’s sister, right? They’re really happy now.”

Mouth twitching with a smile, you say, “Hello. I am Maka. Um…” You twist your hands together, unsure how to explain. “Song is good things being from kin-durid?”

“It’s a Song about kindred?!” Angela bounds towards you, floundering in the snow and wild hair bouncing with her excitement. _“Bears are born from strength!”_ she loudly recites. “What’s that mean?”

Oh. You had not thought this through-- you don’t know enough Common to translate the words properly. You hesitantly hold out your hands, crooking your fingers like giant claws. “Bears, yes? Bears being **strong.”** The girl mimics you and giggles out a childish growl. “Next is, um, bird? Black bird--” you search around, and you see a crow perched on a frosty lantern post. You point at it. “That bird. What is?”

Angela looks over her shoulder. “Oh that’s Harvar. He’s a crow.”

“Crow? Black bird is meaning crow?” Evidently she has named it, already.

“Yup.”

The girl’s smile is infectious, and you find yourself mirroring it back. “Crow is being very... _smart._ Knowing many things. And wolf is--”

**_“Angela.”_ **

The girl winces, slowly looking over her slight shoulder. “Oops.”

When the tall man with straw-like hair rounds the corner of the building with a sword in hand, you suddenly remember where you’ve seen Angela before.

 

* * *

 

**_Mifune_ **

\\\

The tribeswoman from Riohdr had recently brought in an injured brothel girl, those rich Eastland dyes she wears stark in the middle of the greys and browns of Iron Town. Recognizing her, you’d forbidden Angela to go near her, because the last time you’d met, she nearly slaughtered you both.

But the girl had inevitably wandered off again, and as you searched every shadowy corner of the city, you had caught her singing voice on the wind and feared Iron Town would soon go up in flames. Then you turned the corner and found something much worse.

The cheerful smile the tribeswoman wears for the girl is quickly wiped clean when she recognizes you.

“Mif, it’s alright,” Angela says, holding her arms out to defend the woman in much the same way she had saved you in Riohdr. “She isn’t angry right now!”

In a swift, sinuous movement, the tribeswoman tucks her arms under her cloak and climbs atop the barrel she’d been sitting on, crouching like a bird ready to burst into flight. She carefully watches your grip on your sword, her own hands ever so slightly moving under her cloak to draw a hidden weapon.

Pupils blown wide in her green eyes, she lowly says, “You are murderer.”

Your hands tighten around the hilt of the sword. She’s not wrong.

“No!” Angela insists, this time in your defense. “Mifune only kills to protect me--”

“Angela, stay away from--”

All three of you startle when you hear the long, eerie howl of a wolf. Surprise and confusion paint the tribeswoman’s face, and she suddenly stands on the barrel, listening.

Then a loud crash of breaking glass is heard, muffled screams sounding from inside the infirmary. The din becomes louder, the shouting closer, and you hear the too-familiar second language of striking weapons. “She is dying!” someone shouts from inside. “Who will take her soul when she becomes a demon?! You?”

You hurriedly grab Angela, the girl transforming without prompt and clinging to your clothes as you back away from the building. The tribeswoman does the opposite-- she pulls a curved knife and dashes for the infirmary door, but before she makes it there, two men smash through it, splintering wood flying in every direction. The woman stumbles back, knocking debris away with her dagger and deftly avoiding the struggling men.

One of them is Lord Thane, who fends off the furious attacks of a wild-looking man in snowy furs, a wolf skull masking his face. Stuck on the ground, Thane slides through slush and mud, one-handedly parrying the other man’s attacks with a sword that would be better off held by two, cradling his injured arm to his chest. “I was protecting the girl!” he yells, rolling away from a whistling slash of the man’s bone dagger. “What would you have done, Soul?”

This is when the chief of guard, Ox, barrels out of the ruined infirmary door, attacking the wolf-like warrior with a sweep of his halberd. The man avoids the attack, rushing in close to counter with his shorter weapon to trade blows.

His assailant distracted, Thane manages to get back on his feet, looking winded while leaning on his sword. “Restrain him! Do no harm!”

There is an awful screech, and a man in black seems to materialize from the air, smoke dissipating from his clothes as he appears behind the warrior. You realize the man is Harvar, one of Thane’s advisors, and he is apparently _kindred._

Ox pushes forward, striking the attacker with the butt end of his halberd and knocking him back. With a hand at either end of a heavy-looking rifle, Harvar hooks his weapon around the front of Soul’s neck, restraining him with a choke-hold.

With guns involved, you are too close for comfort. You keep your sword in hand, circling around to a safer place for Angela, but a crowd has begun to gather, and they block your path. “Stop this, Soul Eater,” Harvar says between clenched teeth, struggling to keep the man still. “I trusted you were better than this--”

“Go back to the slog you came from, **traitor,”** the man chokes out, aiming his dagger behind him with a stab that the kindred must avoid. Harvar transforms into smoke, becoming a crow that flies to Thane’s side and once more becomes a man, pointing his firearm at the furious warrior.

Thane puts his hand on the weapon, stopping Harvar from firing. “We will perform rites for Moro,” he announces. “I did not wish this, Soul!”

Ox once more attempts to stop Soul from going after the lord, but the other man is not weighed down with armor and does not tire as quickly as the guard. Soul knocks the halberd from Ox’s hands and takes the opening, shouldering Ox into the mud and jumping over the guard to dash at Thane.

“May the Tower fall a hundred times before you say any prayers for our mother!” he cries.

Now on his feet, Thane is prepared, striding forward to meet Soul with his sword. There is a single _crack_ of blades meeting, but it is much louder than you expect, the winter air shattering with the sound. Suddenly appearing between the two men is the tribeswoman, who has deflected both sword and dagger in such a blur of movement that you _hadn’t seen it happen._

“Stopping now!” she shouts, and Thane, shocked by her appearance, quickly disengages, Ox righting himself and following Harvar to defend the young lord.

Soul only directs his fury towards her, instead. He bares fang-like teeth at the woman, knife whistling as he aims for her face. “You protect him? These humans are the reason you were cursed!”

The tribeswoman blocks his attacks so easily with her knife it makes your heart race. She makes no offensive attack, only defending herself. “I am not wanting fight,” she says, preventing him from getting to Thane. “Revenge is only making demons, Soul! I am one!”

The man still presses forward, slowly gaining ground. “If you ally with the city, then _you_ are my enemy,” he hisses, redoubling his efforts.

The gathered crowd closes around the two warriors. People shout, Thane attempts to deliver orders, but above the commotion you hear a trumpeting call from behind you, heavy hooves pounding the earth, and you only just manage to dive out of the way as the tribeswoman’s black beast charges through the crowd and leaps into the fray. The elk slams into Soul Eater, headbutting him into the side of the infirmary with a loud thud. Wolf-skull helmet shattered, the man slides to the ground, unconscious.

The woman looks as shocked by this as everyone else in attendance. “Oh!” she gasps, then says a few phrases in a language you don’t understand. The elk angrily snorts, but retreats to her side at her call. She signals the beast to stand in place before worriedly calling, “Soul?” and hurrying to the fallen man.

“Medusa, wai--” Thane calls out too late. You hear the snap-click of a crossbow, and a bolt meant for Soul Eater burrows into the tribeswoman’s back.

The woman who had tended to your concussion stands in the remains of the broken infirmary door, crossbow in her hands. “She ran in front of it-- it was meant for the beast prince!” she exclaims in shock, though her eyes read far colder than her voice.

“Since when does a healer take up arms?!” Ox snarls.

 _“Mifune,”_ whispers Angela in your ear as you pick yourself up off the ground. _“She’s angry now.”_

“What--” Whipping your head back to the injured tribeswoman, you watch as black blood dribbles down her back in thick, viscous ropes. She hunches over, dark magic twisting along her body and wrapping around her face. Her power crackles like thousands of furious birds, and when she speaks, her voice makes your guts drop to the earth.

“Your human city has ruined the homes and lives of thousands,” the tribeswoman says, eyes glowing like embers. Red and black sickles burst from her back, shearing off rooflines, and lampposts, and you hurriedly brace your sword against one hurtling towards your _face_ , the steel of your weapon screaming between your hands when you meet it. The force of the Tribeswoman’s magic pushes you back, your feet slipping in the slush of the street. Every muscle in your body burning, you deflect the sickle out of the crowd and up to the sky, though doing so snaps your sword at the hilt.

The tribeswoman stretches low, tendrils of magic whipping around her in a storm of fury as she points unerringly to Thane with a hand shrouded in black flame. “You will know my rage and despair.”

Angela says, _“Go,”_ and with only a hilt in your hand, you dart forward from the crowd, taking a risk you hadn’t known you were considering until the girl had urged you to begin. Silent as an assassin and skilled as a soldier, you strike the back of the tribeswoman’s head with the pommel of what’s left of your sword.

She falls unceremoniously to the ground, her magic turning to dust with a deafening snap. Her elk, furious with your attack, tosses his head and charges for you, but Angela changes into her human body and calms the beast with a few sweet notes of Song.

Your legs are shaking.

“Shall we detain them?” Ox asks, halberd still in hand should either one of the unconscious warriors suddenly awaken.

Medusa secures another bolt in her crossbow. “Better to kill them both. One is a tainted thing and the other should be executed for an attempt on the lord's life.”

“No!” says a young woman from inside the infirmary, pushing past Medusa on a wounded leg. She’s the one who’d been brought in by the tribeswoman at your feet, her younger sister helping her out of the door. “Both of these people helped save my life in the forest. Please don’t kill them!”

Thane holds up a hand, mouth pinched. _“Enough._ I will not have more blood shed when the fault lies with me and my father.”

Iron Town’s alarm bells begin to ring. Another howl sounds, so loud and deep that you realize the first one you had heard earlier might not have belonged to a wolf at all.

“We must act quickly, Thane,” says Harvar. “Decide.”

The young lord looks at you, at the woman at your feet, and at the unconscious wild-man a few paces away, his scowl deepening. He opens his mouth for a verdict, but is interrupted by a woman with dark hair coming out of the crowd, a cloak hastily draped over her shoulders. “Give them to the wolves, kid,” she suggests, breathless.

Thane considers this a few moments. “Harvar, speak with Wes.” The kindred immediately shapeshifts and flies away. To the crowd, the lord orders, “Have Soul, Maka, and the riding beast brought to the gate. They will not be harmed, but they are not welcome here.”

The dark-haired woman and Ox move for Soul, but everyone else is reluctant to touch the tribeswoman, several townsfolk drawing signs on their chests to ward off evil. It is Patricia, the younger sister of the woman who had pleaded mercy, who steps forward, helping you carry the tribeswoman away while Angela follows with the black elk in tow.

Ox orders the posted guards to open the main gate, and you catch the tail end of a conversation between the kindred crow and, to your shock, a massive white wolf.

“I am trying to stop brother, but brother is not listening.”

Perched on a lantern, Harvar says, “If he returns, he will be killed. The woman stopped him. She took an arrow for him.”

The wolf whines, sniffing Soul and the woman in your hands. “I am knowing this she-human,” he says curiously. “Putting her on the elk. He will follow.” The wolf then carefully picks up Soul in his mouth and trots away from the city.

You help Patricia drape the tribeswoman on the elk’s back, but you have no way of securing her. Angela does not seem worried about it though. “Take her to the Nightwalker. She hurts. Understand?” she asks, pressing her hand to the beast’s muzzle.

The black beast gingerly follows the wolf, his bleeding master balanced on his back. After they disappear into the forest, Ox turns to you and says, “I imagine Thane will want to have a few words with you, Imperial.”

You tiredly sigh. You are without a sword, again.

 

\\\

 

Repairs echo in the night, villagers boarding up the damage to their homes to keep out the freezing winter winds.

Lord Thane is still scuffed and muddy from the attack. He sits at his desk, the broken arm pressing against his abdomen, suggesting his ribs are tender. “I wanted to thank you for your assistance. As one of the Empress’s men, you had no obligation to intervene. You have my gratitude.”

You give a brief bow. “It was not with thought of allegiance when I acted, my lord. I know the strength that woman has. This city would have been decimated had something not been done.”

Thane exchanges glances with Harvar and Ox, the former perched on the latter. “You’ve seen the Eastlander before?” the crow asks you.

“At Riohdr. She slayed many. By all rights, I should not have survived.” You step forward to Thane’s desk, placing your recently shattered sword on the surface. “This was a sword worked by the Aranei Palace.”

“That doesn’t mean a great deal,” Ox mutters. “Anyone can break an Imperial sword.”

You nod. Then you draw your old sword still at your hip, working its warped, unrecognizable blade out of the scabbard. You hold it out for inspection. “This was Iron Town’s work. She has power you do not know.”

With a handkerchief, Thane takes the sword from you with wide eyes, turning it between his hands. “I fear I do have an idea. Maka had the misfortune of slaying the salamander, and is now cursed by his rage,” he says, handing the sword back to you. “She has brought him back home.”

“Then it is a blessing to let her go free,” Medusa says from the doorway, slipping in and making a show of inspecting Thane for further injury, though you think it likely she merely uses him as an excuse to join the conversation. “Perhaps she will take the Nightwalker out for us.”

 _“What,”_ says Harvar, spilling off Ox’s shoulder and shakily forming into his human body. He shrugs off the guard’s concerned hand and leans on the edge of the desk, voice seething when he says, “You cannot be serious. Thane, you said you _understood--”_

You are surprised by the scathing fury on Thane’s face, eyes narrowed as he stands with authority and glares balefully at the healer woman and kindred. In cold tones, the man replies, “I have agreed to nothing. Ox.”

“Sir.”

“Take our guest to Jacqueline and see that he is fitted with a new weapon as a token of our gratitude. Medusa, please refrain from entering this room unless expressly invited. You are dismissed. Harvar. **A word.”**

 

* * *

 

**_Black Star_ **

\\\

The noises that filter into your dreams sound so much like home that it takes you a long while to remember you aren’t on Death’s Table. Screaming, crashing, the clash of swords-- Jasper must be at it again, fighting over kinflesh in the dining hall.

But then you remember Maka carving Jasper up with her cursed scythes, and your eyes pop open, slowly focusing on the patched wooden ceiling of Thane’s bedchamber.

“Harvar. A word,” you hear Thane’s muffled voice say, filtering through the door. You’ve heard several boring conversations through it; there must be some kind of meeting room on the other side. Footsteps shuffle out of hearing, and a draft of air sucks under the door as another one is shut in the adjacent room. You slowly sit up, listening for any kind of useful information.

Thane sounds _angry,_ which you find interesting. You’ve never seen the man be much more than tepid in any given conversation. “Do not undermine me so openly in front of outsiders. Should the swordsman report any kind of turmoil to Arachne, she would march up the cliff in an instant--”

“Do you honestly think it is the Empress I worry about right now?” replies a voice you’ve heard before, though most times he is too soft-spoken to understand through the door. This must be Harvar-- and he is apparently heated enough to argue with the young lord. “Asura’s _ghost_ showed up on our doorstep, Soul Eater just tried to kill you, Moro is dying, and yet you are still thinking about Arachne’s offer? Have you not heard a single thing I’ve said?”

“I have no intention of giving the head of the Nightwalker to Arachne, how many times must I say it?”

“Until you bloody say **no! _”_**

“Harvar--”

“I was loyal to your father because he tried to save my tribe, and though I cannot forgive him for shooting the salamander, I understand why he did it. But _you,_ you should _know--”_

“You were there when Moro attacked, I had little choice!”

You hear a scuffling of boots, Harvar’s voice growing closer. “That is not what I-- Thane, you cannot claim to be an ally of kindred while still considering _slaying our god.”_

There is a slam. “I will consider _every_ path before me,” Thane snarls. “To not do at least that much would be a disservice to those I am trying to protect!”

“So you will not say no.”

“My friend, even when the answer is clear as day, the execution is not.”

Something is hissed, and the draft pulls through the bedchamber again, the door in the other room slamming. The voices stop.

You lean back into Thane’s pillows with a sigh. You suppose you’ll have a report for Medusa, at least, but you were hoping for some violence. Iron Town is a complete bore. Nobody kills _anyone._

It’s only been two days since you’ve woken up, and you are desperate to get out of this tiny room. Thane still thinks you too infirm to do much more than stumble to the garderobe to take a piss, and you don’t want to give him any suspicions to suggest otherwise, but that has meant a lot of eating opium-laced dumplings just to pass the time.

You think you’ll be able to sneak out tonight, though. Just as soon as Thane passes out on his worktable like he has the past two nights, the fool.

Familiar footsteps approach the door, and you wipe your face clean of any sober expressions-- you like to pretend you are much more affected by Medusa’s medicines than you are, allowing you to say things a normal peasant would not get away with when addressing a lord.

Thane enters the room, unusually wet and _filthy_ from head to foot. Blinking tiredly, he spies you sitting upright in bed. “My apologies if we woke you,” he says, voice bland.

You ask, “Lover’s spat?” and are unable to stop your grin at the offended glare he gives you-- you’ve never seen anything but death-like calm, or perhaps a bit of mild surprise when you had a pair of knives at his throat.

 _“Excuse me?”_ he says, unbuckling the sword around his waist and loudly dropping it on his worktable.

“Ah, forgive me, my lord,” you slur, waving a hand drunkenly. “My mouth’s run away from my face.”

Thane sighs and removes his cloak, carefully working it around his injured wrist. You watch as he discovers a compact little pistol at his waist, as if he’d forgotten it was there. He unbuckles the holster for that too, solemnly placing it in a storage box in plain view.

Idiot.

He moves to a water basin near the lit hearth and disrobes, removing his overgown and pulling free the ties around his hair before bending to pour water over his head. Working the mud from the strands, he says, “Harvar is not my lover. I have no time for such things.”

“That’s a shame,” you blurt-- perhaps you should lay off the dumplings a few days. Still, Thane has lithe muscles stretching across the wings of his shoulders as he dries his hair and face, with arms that show his training with a sword. He’s not as frail as you had initially judged him, and you realize the way he carries himself is mostly the product of the tight wrappings around his torso.

You’ve seen an immeasurable amount of bruised ribs in your life, but as you watch Thane unwrap his and slather a poultice over green and black mottled skin, you think his injury looks a bit more like Maka’s cursed hands than any kind of bruise. You have little doubt that this is what Medusa meant by Thane following his father into the grave.

You are reminded what a fool he is, so easily manipulated by Arachne’s sister. Well, it’s none of your concern. An ally of the kindred is doomed to fall to the wrath of your sire, anyway.

Thane arches an eyebrow, wrapping his ribs back up with fresh gauze. He’s caught you staring, and you swear off the dumplings for good because they are making you sloppy. “It can’t be helped,” he says, and for a moment you must remember what you’d been talking about. Pulling on a clean tunic, the man brings water from the basin and a rattling bag of supplies over to the bed, settling on the nearby stool.

You freeze. If he changes the bandage on your shoulder, he will absolutely find the Star Clan tattoo. You cover your shoulder with your left hand. “Uh, the Lady Medusa has already--”

“No. I shall tend to your face. Come here.”

You hastily shut your mouth. “Oh.” You warily slink over to the edge of the bed.

There’s a ghost of a smile on Thane’s lips while he dampens a cloth with water. “One might think you were averse to pain, Blade. I assure you I am as light-handed as our healer.”

You consider punching that smile off his face. “Honestly, my lord, that does not comfort me in the least. The woman has a violent streak.”

Thane gives a wry laugh, wringing out the washcloth. “You are right about that,” he mutters under his breath, gesturing for you to lean closer so he can reach the cut Jasper had given you.

Biting your tongue, you tilt the side of your face to him, neck exposed and screaming vulnerability. He works painfully slowly one-handed, and your body winds tighter and tighter, waiting for this to moment to turn life-threatening at any second.

Thane dabs gently at your jawline, slowly working his way up your cheek. He says, “This is looking better, but your ear is taking longer than the rest.”

“...My lord needn’t bother-- a mirror and I could do this myself.”

“We have no mirrors,” he replies, somewhat distracted as he works around what’s left of your ear after Carmine had ripped off the torn bit. “With Star Clan raiding our caravans, they’re not worth the expense.”

He then takes a needle and lances some type of sore close to your earlobe, which is well timed because you can’t quite hide your wince. Eager to say anything that might distract you from your anxious heartbeat, you ask, “Are you going after the Deer God, my lord?”

If you were not as trained as you are, you would have missed Thane’s brief, careful pause. This sets your heart beating _faster._ The man has given no indication that suggests he doesn’t believe the story you fed him about being a weaponsmith’s son-- he trusts you enough to disrobe and unarm himself in the same room, and above all else, he hasn’t tried to _kill you._ But how dimwitted is this prince of Iron Town after all?

Have you read him wrong from the start? You didn’t do so well with Maka, so perhaps you should reevaluate the situation you’re in more carefully.

“Do you have business with the Nightwalker?” Thane asks so flatly that you can’t read him at all, and you worry you have made a grave error in judgement.

You push with the opium pretense, slipping just enough of a heavy tongue in your mouth to sound genuine. “Me? Hells no. Can’t care less for kinshit ghosties or whatever else is out there. Beastlings only ever bring trouble to my family.” You pause; at least that’s not a lie. You swallow thickly, Thane pressing a wine-soaked sponge to the tender parts of your ear. You fake a hiss at the sting.

“Be still.”

If he thinks _this_ is painful to you, he must truly not know who you are. “But, uh, seein’ as I got nothin’ to thank you with for all this, I could help you. I’m a good tracker-- if I can repay you by hunting down some oversized deer, I’ll do it gladly, my lord.”

You feel his eyes on you, but you make no move to back away, head tilted and defenseless in his reach.

Close enough to kill you, he murmurs, “I’ll keep that in mind,” while gently mending your face.

 

\\\

 

The idiot never _sleeps._

You need to sneak out of town to find Ivory, but Thane seems eternally awake tonight, quill constantly scratching against parchment. You end up falling asleep, yourself, just waiting for exhaustion to claim him.

You wake when the hearth’s fire is little more than smoldering coals. Thane is still at the table, tapered candles down nearly to the stick, but finally asleep, head resting on a folded arm.

Creaking out of bed, you inch closer, investigating what the man was last working on. In the watery candlelight, you see it is a partially-completed map of the surrounding forests, Iron Town carefully inked in. You commit this to memory, as anything to help you find the Deer God before anyone else tracks him down is a boon.

“Urmph,” mumbles Thane. You aren’t alarmed-- the man has talked in his sleep the past two nights as well, and after experimenting with thumps, rustles, and other unnatural noises, you’ve found him deaf to all of it.

You gaze longingly at your pair of daggers, which rest openly on the table. As much as you’d like to take them you can’t explain an armed garderobe trip in the middle of the night should Thane wake up and find you missing.

You _do_ take that compact firearm, however. That ought to appease White Star after what he’s about to learn from your report to Ivory. Hopefully.

Creeping to the casement window, you slowly push it open, cringing at the rough ice that scrapes along the hinges. Thane does not stir, so you pull yourself out of the room, climbing to the slick rooftop. Your legs are shakier than you’d like, but the open air is exhilarating, the night crisp and clear.

The wind is from the north again, so you head to the southern wall of Iron Town-- if Ivory is anywhere nearby, she’d be downwind. After waiting for guard patrols to look away, you scale down the wooden ramparts, your hands frozen and stinging by the time you make it to the bottom.

Sticking to the shadow the moon casts on the fortress, you make for the forest. You’re less than twenty paces past the treeline when your half sister tries to kill you. You’re short of breath, body struggling to keep up with your demands after so much time bedridden, and the needle grazes past your cloak too close for comfort, embedding itself in a fallen tree.

After the initial attack, there are no further attempts on your life-- Ivory’s death threats are more of a salutation than anything.

“Tracking you is like tracking an elephant,” comes her childlike voice from the treetops. “I’ve been waiting five days. Watching you fail to die is incredibly boring.”

You yank the needle out of the decayed log and toss it blindly up to the trees. It does not come back down. “I’ve already been executed, what more do you want?” you reply.

“Something _useful_ to the Clan?” She drops down from the pines, nearly invisible against the snowy forest floor in her grey clothing. As horrid as her name is elegant, Ivory Star is twice as power-hungry as Jasper had ever been, but had been blessed with your shared father’s patience to keep her from doing anything reckless. “Could you be any more obvious with the kinloving prince? He’s not even that good-looking.”

 _“Fall off the Table,”_ you hiss. “The mission has changed. Arachne’s sent a warrior to Sephtis to team up and take the Deer God’s head, but her sister is holed up here, and she’s plotting to overthrow Sephtis and his son to take the town for--”

Ivory growls her impatience, making a half-hearted roundhouse kick in the general direction of your face. “I already know all this. Tell me something _important.”_

You sigh. “To get my ass out of the fire, I told Medusa that White Star will make a deal with her if she helps me slay the Nightwalker. I may have to assassinate a few idiots and put her in charge of the town, and _then_ we kill the damned deer. After that we can kill _her,_ I don’t particularly care-- actually I do care, because I’d really like to tear her face from her head.”

“So you told the Empress’s sister our father’s _secret_ plan-- the one he painstakingly faked your death for-- and you somehow expect him to... _not_ murder you?” Ivory gives you a flat stare. “You had one job, Black.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” you say easily, unbuckling Thane’s pistol and holster from under your cloak. You dangle it over your half-sister’s head. “I have this and more. Just give me time.”

Ivory leaps and snatches the weapon out of your hands, a joyous smile stretching across her face as she inspects the firearm. She’s testing the heft of it in her hands when you both hear a twig snap. Ivory silently scales a tree while you meld to the shadows behind it, waiting for whatever approaches.

When you spot that pinkish tint of hair, you nearly curse aloud. It’s the kindred chameleon that belongs to the mercenary. You quickly leap up into the tree and clamp your hand around Ivory’s wrist, her fingers already holding deadly needles to hunt the kindred.

 _“Stop,”_ you mouth to her, and you wonder just how many times you’re going to be forced to spare this little pipsqueak’s life. _“I need her to find the Deer God. Go.”_

It’s too dark to see her roll her eyes, but her cowled head makes the movement enough to paint the picture for you. _“Fine,”_ she mouths back. _“I will return on the new moon. Don’t expect me to be this nice next time just because we’re related.”_

 _“Wouldn’t dream of it,”_ you reply, letting her arm go. _“Give me one of your knives. It’s not like you use them.”_

Ivory digs through her many layers of clothes to find one and proceeds to throw the blade at your crotch before she takes her leave. You sweat-- your reflexes are not up to speed, and you almost missed catching the damned dagger.

Peering through the branches, you catch a glimpse of the kindred wandering further into the forest. Where she is, the mercenary is sure to follow... but what if she leads you straight to the Nightwalker after all?

You’re not particularly eager to return to Thane’s little room just yet.

You carefully follow the beastling, trailing her for quite a distance; she moves quickly for someone with such short legs. As she leads you through Raskogr, the night air gradually becomes warmer, the snows eerily diminishing and disappearing completely when you catch sight of a lake.

Winter is only a dream here-- the forest is somehow in the full swing of spring, chattering insects and the scent of flowers heavy on the night air. Steam curls off the surface of the lake in eerie swirls, and you press yourself against a tree because this is certainly the work of bizarre god-magic. In the time it takes you to glance around the mossy shoreline for any unwanted company, you discover the girl has vanished.

There’s a puff of moonlit smoke where you’d seen her last, and you sigh heavily through your nose. You listen for the tiniest hint of footsteps, and are quickly rewarded with a rustle only a few paces away from your tree. Slowly drawing Ivory’s knife from your belt, you crouch and wait, one hand on the forest floor for balance.

The earth is unnaturally warm under your fingers. With shock, you look down and see your hand resting over an enormous print of a deer.

Your attention is once more caught by the nearby rustling, the sound moving away from you and towards the lake. When you lean around the tree to observe, you are shocked to see a silhouette of a small fawn gracefully hop out of the underbrush.

The beast is darker than anything you’ve ever seen, like a deer-shaped hole punched into the forest, exposing a place devoid of all light behind the world you know. The fawn turns its head to look at you, and you realize you are standing upright without remembering having done so. Though it has no eyes, you feel it staring into you, as if easily viewing your soul.

You step away from the trees, into the moonlight, and hurl your knife at the deer’s neck. Your blade passes through it harmlessly, plopping into the lake behind it. The deer’s leaf-shaped ears twitch in your direction, unperturbed.

Mouth dry, you call out, “Are you the Nightwalker?” And then you are overcome by sudden, unexpected pain, falling to your knees and struggling to breathe.

“Ask that before attacking someone, you dung heap!” The chameleon girl threatens to kick you in the groin again, but you grasp her swinging foot while you attempt to find your breath.

You are one of the strongest assassins in the Warbringer’s Star Clan, and this is the second time you’ve been surprised by a beastling. Gasping, you worriedly look back to the deer, but it is no longer there.

In its place is the shadowy figure of a woman, her long black hair like a river from the underworld trailing behind her. She has no face, but there is a ghostly hint of violet eyes glowing like lanterns. Without a mouth, she says, “I am not the Nightwalker.”

“ _He’s_ Star Clan,” the girl says, transforming and escaping from your grip. The chameleon crawls up the shadow-woman’s body, slowly becoming just as black. “Star Clan eat kindred. You should eat him back, Tsubaki.”

“Whoa, wait--” you wheeze, stumbling back to your feet. “I don’t eat beastlings. I get power my own way.”

“Yes.” The woman tilts her faceless head to the sky, and a sudden mass of living darkness bursts from her, knitting through the treetops to block the moon and shrouding the forest around you in shadow.

Her face appears without light to shine on it. She is striking-- both frightening and beautiful, and you somehow feel her words in your bones when she speaks. “I will not eat Black Star,” she says to the chameleon. “I want him to live.”

“Awww.” The beastling sounds disappointed.

You would really appreciate a knife in your hand right now. “How do you know my-- If you are not the Nightwalker, what _are_ you?”

“My brother walks the night,” she says, voice like dark mineshafts and still water. As she approaches you, the river of her hair blooms with red blossoms, unfurling and withering to die in seconds. “I am his shadow.”

Something hazy bubbles to the surface of your memory, and you remember being face down in the snow, held by a starless night until you woke up in Thane’s bed.

“It was you,” you say, recalling your blood blooming with those crimson flowers. “My Clan is your brother’s enemy. I am here to slay him. Why did you spare me?”

She smiles, and something is taken from you, immediately returned and irrevocably changed. “You wish to touch the heavens. I wish to do this, too,” she says, violet eyes peering into yours. “I saw the shadows in you.”

 

 


	6. betrayal

 

**_Black Star_ **

\\\

 

Medusa drums her fingers on the sides of her basket. “Until I convince Thane to accept the offer and then take the deer’s head for himself, you must stop being so _healthy._ ”

If you’re no longer bedridden, you’ll have to leave the room and doubtless have your identity revealed, but you can’t help being strong-- it's what you do best _._ Your arm hardly aches at all anymore, and you’ve been picking at the scab on your face just so Thane has something to patch up in the evenings. “Don’t you have something that’ll make me sweat a little? Like a fever.”

The woman scrutinizes you for a moment. “You assassins are so resistant to my regular poisons,” she murmurs thoughtfully, which makes you pause and wonder when and _how_ she’s tested her concoctions on Star Clan. “How are you with scorpions?”

You blink. “What the hell is that? Some kind of horse?”

Medusa opens a tin filled with little waxy cubes of a somewhat disturbing rust color. “Chew on this,” she says, handing you a bite-sized morsel, and the next thing you remember is Thane finding you in the garderobe hours later, your body a shivering, vomiting slop heap while you murmur nonsense to the waste chute.

While embarrassing, the poison does eventually fade by evening, and you remind yourself that you suffer through this disgrace for your independence. If you want to get out from under White Star’s thumb, you need the Nightwalker’s head to do it, and with Arachne having sent competition to Iron Town, your best bet is to stay put and make sure Mifune doesn’t get the god before you do.

The thought of the Nightwalker inevitably reminds you of Tsubaki, and you blame the way your stomach twists on the after-effects of poisoning. Staring at the patched ceiling of Thane’s room, you fear the Deer God’s sister is bonded to you in a way that can’t be undone-- fear, because you can’t find it in yourself to entirely _want_ it undone. Her voice still rings in your ears, imparting a sensation you’ve never once felt on Death’s Table. Even now you can feel the faintest tug on your heart from some dark part of Raskogr.

You’re here to slay a god of the kindred, so why would his shadow save you? Just because you spared the life of that bratty lizard girl a few times?

...And why had you done _that_ , anyway?

You’re doing all sorts of things you normally wouldn’t. Even though delaying Thane’s inevitable murder is of no benefit to you or your mission, tonight you consider telling him Medusa is trying to kill him as he stirs in a nightmare that has him moaning about fire and brimstone.

You shut your eyes and try to ignore him. Some integral part of you has become unstable ever since you met that damned Eastlander. Maka shook something in you, making you waver during times you should only feel apathy. You roll over in the bed.

But then Thane very nearly screams awake at the table, bolting to his feet and knocking his chair to the floor. Alarmed, you prop yourself up on your hands, face pinching because there’s a _smell_ \-- something so commonplace to you that you hadn’t realized it missing until just now, when it returns in whirling familiarity. It’s the rich scent of kindred roasting on a spit, and Thane wheezes with every ragged breath as he yanks off his tunic and scrabbles madly at the bandage around his ribs.

It occurs to you that he is still half-asleep, because he’s talking to the gauze like it’s alive. _“Let me go, let go, let go,”_ he pleads, his splinted wrist doing little more than catching on loose threads and tangling everything. Outlined by the glowing fireplace, you see his body _burning_ as he desperately tries to rip the wrappings from his smoking skin.

“Eibon’s _shit_ \--” You’re on your feet, struggling to help him unroll the blasted wrappings, though his frenzy makes the process harder than it should. He’s hot the touch and, to make matters worse, the poultice has glued all the layers of gauze together. Given Medusa’s adept use of poison, you think you probably shouldn’t be touching it--

Actually, you shouldn’t be helping this man _at all._

“Gods damn you, Thane,” you growl, knocking his maps and quills across the table in your haste to grab one of your daggers and working the blade under the linen. You slash the wrappings apart and help peel them away from his skin, the sound nauseating. Thane presses a trembling hand to his ribs and pulls it away black and wet.

He stumbles over to the water basin and quickly washes the poison away, steam curling off his body. You stand uselessly by the hearth, unsure what to do and more unsure as to why you feel compelled to do _anything._ Tossing your dagger to the table, you throw the soiled wrappings into the fireplace and try very, very hard to push away the knowledge of how identical kindred and humans smell when cooked.

Halfway through rinsing the mess from his body, Thane pauses, hunched over the basin. “It was different,” he rasps, as if speaking to someone else. You watch him slowly stand upright, shoulders thrown back in an appropriate posture for a lord of Iron Town, half-naked or not, and you find the deliberate change in him between sleeping and waking unnerving.

He sees your shadow on the wall, cast by the hearth. “My apologies if I’ve disturbed you,” he says without turning round.

You rub your face as you walk around the table. “I was already awake, my lord.” Righting the toppled chair, you drop into it with a sigh, tilting your head back in a boneless slump. “Are you all right,” you ask, but only out of courtesy, because you already know the answer.

You’re not surprised when Thane says, “I am.” He resumes his cleaning, breath catching when he touches his scorched skin.

The smell of cooking flesh still in your nose, and you hear yourself say, “Perhaps that poultice does more harm than good.” You roll your head to the side and find Thane carefully watching you, eyes brightly lit by the fire. Meeting that gaze makes you grimace. You don’t know who you’re supposed to be, and you look away. “My mouth’s run off again, my lord.”

Water splashes in the basin. “No matter,” Thane replies. Softly, he adds, “Thank you.”

Grunting, you pry yourself off the chair and shuffle to the bed. Something in you wavers as you collapse in it, your thoughts in turmoil because you've thwarted Medusa’s attempt to kill a man who should be killing _you._

 

\\\

 

Ivory has been soaking her head with fruits and alum, her dark hair now a stark, pale gold twisted up into a topknot. “Everyone knows the secret plan, now. Medusa sent a messenger to verify your story. When Carmine found out you were still alive, there was a bit of a show,” she says, hanging upside down from a tree limb. “I turned him into a pincushion. Now I’m the new Second.” Her satisfaction is apparent even if she makes no effort to smile.

“Damn it, Ivory-- urhg, should’ve killed him when I had the chance.”

Her sigh clouds her face in the night air. “You would have only been put to death. **I** got promoted. Please understand the distance between us sometime in this life-- however long you’ve left in it.”

You yank her needles out of your cloak, unattaching yourself from a tree trunk. After throwing one at the snare that has her by the ankles, Ivory drops into a neat handstand and rights herself. “How did White Star take the news,” you ask, glowering at the holes in your pants.

No assassin should be allowed to have such a girlish giggle. “The gun was a nice touch, but you were lucky that I thought to also tell him the mercenary was here. He’s coming to collect.”

“Ah, shit,” you mutter, tossing her the rest of her weapons. “Collecting _him,_ I hope.”

She shrugs under her layers of leather and wool, the mechanical device she keeps hidden there clanking against itself. “I can’t read our father’s mind,” she quips. “Your orders are these: stay the course. Do as the wench’s sister bids. Listen for our signal to turn on her.”

“Which signal is that?”

Ivory doesn’t hide her amusement this time. “You’ll know, brother,” she says, which is to say you’ll be the very last to know.

The meeting is brief, and you are reluctant to return to that little room in Iron Town when she leaves. The thought of going to the lake is tempting--  you can feel Tsubaki quietly drawing you in, and she should know much about the Nightwalker-- but you know there is an eagerness in you that can’t be attributed to your mission. She is like you, stuck in the shadow of something already grand, but could become greater if she could only step out of it. You think she wants you to _do_ something about it.

Something knots in your lungs and you turn away, leaving the forest to trudge through the snowdrifts that surround Iron Town. You must stay the course, and you don’t need some kindred god slipping under your skin and blurring the edges of your conviction.

When you return to Iron Town and slide in through the window of Thane’s chambers, the man is still sound asleep where you’d left him, this time unconscious over meticulously stacked piles of inventory reports and correspondence with traders in Kiarr. Your lip curls at the sight-- only a fool would be so open to assassination at all hours of the day.

You are **not** going to wake him and move him to the bed; the thought does not come close to passing through your mind. As far as you’re concerned-- which isn’t very-- the bed is _yours_ , and it’s his fault for giving it to you if he has a sore neck later. Burrowing under the furs to warm up from outside, you glower at the silhouette hunched over in the chair.

You must wait for a signal to turn on the healer woman. As you idly touch the scar developing on your face, listening to the sound of warm breath spilling over curling parchment, you can’t help but wonder if the signal will come after Medusa kills Thane or before.

 

\\\

 

The man named Harvar has not returned since the argument you’d heard between him and Thane. Without one of his advisors, the lord is even less eager to make any decision about Mifune and his missive.

“That old whore, Blair, keeps sniffing around, and the boy is taking too long to agree to the terms,” Medusa says, slinking about the room. She checks a jar on the table and finds the container too full for her liking. “And this is not working as fast as I’d hoped. He appears to be as hardy as you are,” she sneers over her shoulder.

You shrug, fruitlessly trying to scratch your shoulder through layers of fresh bandages. Though most of your conversations with this woman tend to end with you crawling helplessly to the garderobe, she’s one of very few people you can talk to without having to pretend you’re someone else. In a very limited capacity, you could almost say you enjoy her company. “I’m inspiring, what is there to say?”

She gives you a withering glower that could curdle blood, but then a shrewd smile slowly curls her lips and makes you itch to be anywhere but under her gaze. “He _does_ seem to prolong his evening visits with you, lately,” she muses. She returns to the stool at the bedside. “We must act quickly. When he sups in here tonight, slip him this.” Medusa pulls out a familiar vial, and you have to stop yourself from shying away like a beast.

“You want me to assassinate him in his own room?” you hiss, aghast. “Would I not be the first person under suspicion? I’m not leaving without the deer’s head, Medusa.”

She rolls her eyes, still holding out the vial. “The riflemen are already mine, Star Clan. I’ve convinced them that Sephtis and Thane are unfit to protect us. You won’t be persecuted, I assure you.”

Eyeing her sideways, you reply, “Assurances from the Empress’s sister don’t exactly ease my heart.” She chuckles, and you cautiously take the bottle of snake venom and tuck it in the folds of your sash. “Why do you want Iron Town so much, anyway? Jealous of Arachne?”

It occurs to you too long after the fact that you may have said the absolute wrong thing to this woman. Medusa frowns, sliding her cord of braided hair off her shoulder. “It is not jealousy that spurs me, Star Clan-- it is _resentment._ ” The skin of her face begins to darken, gold-tipped black scales crawling up her neck and reaching the edges of her face. To your increasing chagrin, the pupils in her eyes narrow to snake-like slits.

You groan upon the realization that you’ve made a ‘deal’ between the Warbringer and kindred. “Snake venom,” you weakly say, suddenly knowing exactly where the poison in the vial came from. “Nine _hells._ Is Arachne a beastling too?”

The kindred serpent smiles, grin empty save for two mean-looking barbs for fangs. “Once. But when she experimented on Maaba, the old woman cursed her and took her blessing away.” Medusa laughs, looking genuinely overjoyed, scales receding. She looks human again when she says, “Then she tried to force me to serve, but I will not bow to her. Nor will I bow to our old, stagnating gods. And most certainly not to our foolish lord who only turns in place, shackled by his indecision.” Standing and gathering her basket of poisons, she says, “I will destroy these so-called ‘protectors’ of the kindred.”

You scoff, shaking your head and grudgingly acknowledging that this woman has no excess of ambition. “And what, be the next Empress to rule?”

“No, Black Star,” she says, looking at you as if you are a child. “I will finally rule _myself._ ” And with that, she leaves you to your own devices, her venom sitting like a stone in the shallow of your hip.

You think you should be feeling a great deal more insulted by the fact that Medusa is kindred, but she clearly hates the restraint of being such, and you relate a bit to that, maybe.

That's worse though, isn't it? You shouldn't relate to those you are assigned to double-cross, much less someone your sire would consider a meal.

Before you can dwell any longer on it, a draft hisses under the door to the connecting room, announcing someone’s arrival. Quickly double-checking the vial hidden in your clothes, you recline on the pillows, donning your bedridden persona. You don't recognize the approaching footsteps-- they're slow, boot soles dragging on the floor with every step-- so you are unprepared when it is truly Thane who enters.

He’s decorated in a new brand of filth, looking so weary when he looks at you that he seems to consider climbing into the bed despite your being in it already. Dark hair falling loose from his knot, he gives up the bed and drags himself to the water basin in the corner. As he passes by, you get a closer look at the mess splattered on his chest and arms, and it’s only by smell that you recognize it as blood, black and putrid.

You scramble to sit upright, watching him unbuckle his sword and drop it carelessly at his feet. “What the kinshit _happened_ to you?”

Thane regards sword and scabbard on the floor a long moment before sighing and picking it back up to properly set it on the table. “My father is unwell,” he blandly replies, peeling off his clothes.

Medusa’s fanged smile flashes behind your eyes. “You mentioned your sick room bein’ full… is there some kind of plague here?”

“Of a sort.” Thane sloughs his father’s blood from his hands, the coal-black of it only serving to make him look paler than he already is, veins stark on the insides of his arms. “Anyone who touched the salamander’s fire was cursed. Sephtis most of all. Medusa is doing her best to help him.”

Yes, of that you’re certain.

“How are you feeling,” he tonelessly asks, awkwardly scrubbing at his right forearm with an immobilized left hand.

You give him the same generic answer you’ve given him every day he asks this. “A bit better.”

He nods. “I’ve sent for supper earlier than usual. I hope it does not trouble you.”

“No, my lord,” you murmur, watching as he dries himself and carefully works his broken wrist into a fresh tunic. Everything about being in the same room as Thane troubles you. You don’t even notice when someone walks through the meeting room to knock on the bedroom door.

Donning a clean overrobe, Thane crosses the room to the answer it, and you’re thankful the door hides your awful sneer when you recognize _Ox’s_ voice. You cannot bear being anywhere near the chief of guard-- contending with him during caravan raids is both stressful _and_ annoying enough.

Speaking of annoyances, Thane looks even more assailable with the guard present, going so far as to undo his hair and causally let it down in a stream of silver-streaked black. His blatant disregard of the possibility that he shares a room with an assassin inspires a desire to throttle him for his weak defense.

A tray of food is passed to Thane. In hushed tones, Ox says, “Something’s amiss, sir. The riflemen are hiding their eyes, pigeons are flying with messages that neither of us seem to read-- are you falling ill?”

“I was visiting my father,” Thane replies, which is apparently enough information for the guard to understand. “Any word?” There’s no spoken response. The lord sighs. “I am sorry, Ox. I fear I’ve driven him away for good.”

Oh. He refers to the not-lover, Harvar.

“I have not known him to be ruled by anger,” says Ox. “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.” He goes on to mumble a few quiet things you can’t catch through the door, and Thane asks for fresh water to be sent before dismissing him.

Good. The farther the guard is from you, the better-- Ox could identify you with a simple glance from across town, no doubt, and if the man has already caught wind of treachery, Medusa was right about needing to act quickly.

Shutting the door, Thane wordlessly stands before you with steaming food and tea in his hands, and you fold your legs under you for him to place the tray on the edge of the bed. He takes the stool for himself. You pour the tea.

You’ve been through this bizarre ritual the past few evenings, but this time you must find a moment to add poison to the menu. Gods, but you do hate poison. It’s too much like Carmine and Ivory-- underhanded and effortless. You’d rather kill a man while facing him with a weapon, but you suppose that’s the a difference between an assassin and a warrior, and you are simply trained to be the former.

Among steaming, spiced apples and roasted root vegetables, tonight’s supper features pork dumplings, and you think the gods must be laughing at you. You portion out a bit of everything to a wooden plate and pass this to Thane. “You needn’t eat with me if you have other things to do,” you grumble.

The man carefully balances the plate with his splinted arm. “My evening meal is the only time I have to myself.” He sounds faintly amused when he adds, “Plus you seem strangely adept at serving food.”

You pause with your hand hovering over a dumpling. Is this pampered prince making a jab at ‘Blade’s’ laboring family, implying you are too poverty-stricken for servants? Thane is sometimes condescending, but rarely snide. “My lord?”

He does not appear to be making any kind of joke at your expense, however. Thane studiously looks over his plate. “You arrange it just so. It appeals to me,” he says, and you realize he is being _serious._

Without thinking, you say, “You are the strangest lord I’ve ever met.”

He looks up, somewhat startled, and you realize you’ve just insulted a man who could throw you out of his chambers and blow your cover.  “Aaah-- not that that’s a fault, my lord. It’s strange that you’re so, uh, ...generous.” You hate that your ears burn as he watches you trip over your own tongue, the corners of his mouth turning up. You sigh, returning to piling food on your own plate. “You seem to have an excess of kindness,” you mutter. “I can’t hope to ever repay you for it.”

He pinches the centermost dumpling on his plate with his fingers. Voice smooth, he says, “Perhaps you can serve under me for a time,” and something very warm settles under your skin at _that._ You slowly turn your head again, hazarding a look. Thane pauses in bringing the food to his lips, levelly returning your stare between curtains of his hair.

“...Serve under?”

He hums an affirmative. “For repayment. You’ve nothing to trade, if I recall.”

Try as you might, you fail to glean whether or not you’re being propositioned from his expression. The burning in your ears spreads to your face, and your eyes involuntarily trace down his body and back up again.

Thane raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smile. “At the _forge,_ ” he clarifies, finally taking a bite of his meal while you pull your lips into a thin line and rub your crinkled forehead with the heel of your palm, silently cursing every inch of heaven. “Though you’d have to contend with the brothel girls. They enjoy harassing new recruits.”

You lift your head from your hand. “Brothel girls are manning your forge?”

He is too well-mannered to speak while chewing, so you must wait for his response when he takes another bite. “Well. Ex-brothel girls, yes. We have quite a few of them working various trades around town. Some even build our firearms.”

“I’d like to see that,” you say, genuine, but then you recall the vial in your sash and realize that this moment, whatever it is, will soon be rendered pointless. You toss an entire dumpling in your mouth, speaking around it. “Though my offer still stands to track your deer, my lord.”

Thane takes a deep breath, face settling back into his customary, blank expression. “I won’t be needing that service, I’m afraid.”

The food tastes like ash as you swallow it. “Not hunting the Nightwalker?” you ask, your heart suddenly loud in your ears.

“No,” he says, somewhat distant. “As much as I respect my father, my path is different from his. I must find a new way for us to live.”

A deep-rooted part of you unwinds with relief. Even if your goals are the same, your paths undeniably go in opposite directions, and you can’t help but marvel at the clean, direct strike heaven makes the moment the lord seals his fate. The gods line everything so precisely: someone knocks at the door, announcing fresh water for the basin. Setting his plate on the bed, Thane stands to answer the door, and you are given the perfect window of time to slip the vial from your sash and pour its contents into his tea as he changes the basin water.

You soullessly chew your supper when Thane finally returns to his seat. He catches you following the line of his neck as he reaches for his cup, and there’s a wistful sense of missed opportunity when he looks at you and brings death to his lips.

 

* * *

 

**_Mifune_ **

\\\

She is becoming independent, as of late. You’re not sure what to do about it.

“I don’t mind you going to the forest so long as I am with you,” you say, walking with her to Iron Town’s armory. The blacksmith had said she’d have a sword ready for you by midday.

“I only wanted to ask Tsubaki if Maka and the wolf prince made it to the lake,” she says, running ahead and chasing birds in the muddy craft district.

Your forehead is an eternal wrinkle. “Who is Tsubaki?”

She flaps her arms at the fleeing pigeons. “I told you, she’s the Night Stag’s sister! Miss Kitty talks about her all the time.”

You take a long breath and follow her down the street, a few nearby horses nickering as she passes. It is difficult to know when a young child is telling the truth or making up fantasy when she is capable of conjuring wyvern’s breath from thin air, and you can only attempt to separate fact from fiction for so long before giving up. “Hands to yourself,” you remind her as she reaches the armory.

The girl is smitten with tools of murder, and the fault is entirely yours. Angela struggles to keep her hands behind her back as she darts from weapon to weapon stocked in the building, seeing her reflection in polished blades and smiling at herself. You direct her down a curving hallway lined with sacks of gunpowder and rows upon rows of long, heavy rifles. The hall takes you to a back door that opens to an outdoor smithy.

Jacqueline, a willowy, dark-haired young woman, stands at the grindstone wheel. She directs Patricia to polish and sharpen a batch of steel arrowheads, having recently taken the young girl as an apprentice. When she sees you and Angela, she leaves the girl to her work, stepping forward and gesturing you away from the loud noise of the grindstone.

At a workbench, she sifts through various canvas-wrapped bundles of weapons. She disregards any formalities and says, “I am reluctant to arm an Imperial swordsman.”

“He’s a mercenary,” Angela corrects, the title not holding any negativity in her ears.

Jacqueline blinks down at the girl. “With a kindred apprentice?”

Angela only giggles, leaving the question unanswered, then dashes off to visit with Patricia. The blacksmith then gives you a considering look but doesn’t press the matter, returning to dig through her inventory. Mouth pinched, she says, “In any case, if my lord wishes it, it will be done. Also, upon seeing my former work so mutilated, you could say that replacing it became a matter of pride.”

“I’m not certain anyone could forge something that could withstand that damage,” you offer. “It was the work of demon fire.”

A true blacksmith, she does not flinch at the mention of flames. “That explains all the impurities when I tried to reforge it.” She finds what she’s looking for, drawing out a leather-wrapped scabbard from a bundle, presenting it to you. “Luckily, I’ve had another one waiting. It’s too long for most who come through here, and those tall enough to wield it prefer something heavier for a two-handed. Sharpened this morning.”

You draw the sword and test the weight in your hand. Holding it is like finding a missing limb, and you revel in its craftsmanship. You say nothing, but when you look up at the blacksmith, she reads you like an open book. “Well. That’s yours then. May it serve you better than the last.” Jacqueline pauses for a moment, then very seriously adds, “Unless you’re fighting us. Then, despite how unlikely it might be, I hope it disintegrates.”

You fight a small smile as you fasten the scabbard to your waist. “You have my gratitude. Your work is superlative.”

The woman’s cheeks dust with pink, but she is too reserved to look any more flattered than that. She gives a quick glance over her shoulder and quietly directs you further away from Angela and Patricia, drawing closer to the glowing forge and battered anvil. In hushed tones, she asks, “If you were sent from the palace, by chance did you happen to see a woman with hair like your girl’s?”

She’s caught you off-guard entirely. “There was a Loresinger,” you quietly reply, and Jacqueline’s eyes widen with barely contained excitement, the forge fire dancing in them. “A woman named Kimial.”

The blacksmith takes a steadying breath. “Was she well?”

You recall those milk-like eyes of hers, but the Loresinger hadn’t seemed handicapped by them. “...As far as I could tell. She taught Angela a few Songs,” you say, wearily reliving a certain avalanche in your memory.

“That is good to hear,” Jacqueline says, finally easing into a close-lipped smile. It’s a fleeting thing; she is back to business in moments. “About your old sword: it takes a great deal of fire to make it cooperate, but there’s some salvageable steel. I could make a small blade, perhaps something your girl could use--”

 **“Really?!”** Nearly dancing in place, Angela peers at you and the blacksmith from around a quenching barrel. Patricia stands behind her and casually waves, unashamed of her eavesdropping. “Mif, I can have a weapon?”

The word ‘no’ is already on your tongue-- primarily from abhorrence of the thought, yet also, simply, _habit_ \-- but the idea of her sneaking out alone in the forest, armed with nothing but Songs she can hardly control, makes you swallow your decision. What if something should happen to you? What if she's caught by another Star Clan cannibal?

Your main problem is that you simply don't know what the girl is capable of. You worry about Arachne’s warnings of embers and hellfire, unsure if giving Angela a weapon would help protect her or simply fan the flames.

She drags a reluctant answer from you with only her expression. “I… will consider it--” The girl nearly bounces herself to the sky, squealing in joy and running circles around the blacksmith’s apprentice. You give a wry look to Jacqueline, who has the grace to look slightly apologetic.

“Patti, take the girl with you and have your meal. Bring me back a share when you’re finished.”

“Alright!” Patricia then squats low and gestures to her back, and Angela leaps for it, riding on the young woman’s shoulders away from the smithy.

Jacqueline straightens her heavy leather apron. “I’ll take that as a yes?”

You grunt, crossing your arms and wondering how you made it to this particular moment in your life, discussing the finer points of arming a nine year old kindred girl. This must be a crime in at least three different ways. “Are you familiar with the knives used on the southern islands?” you idly ask.

“Five-finger daggers,” the blacksmith says easily, and if she's curious of your taste in obscure, foreign blades, she makes no indication of it. “It’s a good choice; the blood gutters keep it light. Shall I make one with the old sword?”

With a tired sigh, you say, “If it's possible. Please send word when it is finished.” Excusing yourself with a small bow, you leave the smithy and armory to follow after Angela. You suppose you now must teach the girl how to handle a blade alongside her reading lessons.

The long tables in the dining hall are nearly empty, most of Iron Town’s laborers having already dined. You see Patricia and her older sister Elizabeth near the large hearth, but no sign of Angela. You do, however, see a familiar, dark haired woman talking to nobody in the furthest corner of the room, so you grab an ale and join her.

Once you’re seated, you feel Angela stalking up to her preferred spot on your shoulder. “This is Blair,” she says, becoming visible and imitating your hair draped on your cloak. “She runs the big bellows.”

The woman is the same one who had helped carry Soul Eater out of Iron Town the night he attacked Lord Thane. She holds up a bowl of creamy soup in greeting. “Hello, swordsman. How’s the head?” she asks, putting the dish to her mouth.

You hadn’t thought your injury to be so common knowledge. Cautiously, you reply, “Better, thank you,” and then you notice the inside of her forearm as she tilts the soup into her mouth. There’s a burn scar there, glistening pink in the light.

A thought occurs to you, and when you look to study her face, you find her cat-like eyes already staring at you over the rim of the bowl. She loudly slurps as if in confirmation.

Angela stifles a giggle. “It’s a secret, Mif, don’t tell anybody.”

So this is the ‘Miss Kitty’ that has been teaching Angela about the gods in Raskogr. You don’t know why Blair would keep her true nature a secret in a town that openly accepts and protects kindred, but it isn’t your business what she does with her life. “Thank you for your… guidance, the other night.”

Blair smiles, placing the bowl back on the table. “You’re most welcome,” she says, but then she tilts her head to one side, her smile shifting into something decidedly less friendly. “Still intending on slayin’ the Nightwalker?”

You feel Angela go still on your shoulder. “Depending on what the young lord decides.”

“Hmm,” the woman muses, resting her elbows on the table. “You could just stay here, you know? You’ve defected from the Empire before, what’s another time?”

You’re suddenly very conscious of the sword at your side. “My reputation precedes me,” you say, voice flat.

Blair shrugs and rubs her shoulders with her hands. “Don’t give me such a cold glare, _Mifune_ ,” she says playfully. “You learn things when you work in a brothel as long as I had. Many people spoke of a mercenary with hair like yours. I only mean to say you ought to work for Lord Thane instead. Angela certainly likes it here, don’t you, kitten?”

The chameleon twitches on your shoulder, tail curling. “I do, but…”

You stare into your tankard of ale. You’ve known she does-- you saw her _chase birds_ today. It would be a lie to say changing your alliance once again hadn’t crossed your mind already, but the situation is different this time.

“It’s not like Mif _wants_ to kill the Night Stag,” Angela says, and your eyes widen, hearing her say what you haven’t told her. “But he’s gotta. And I go where he goes.”

Blair fits her hands around her bowl of soup, warming her fingers. To you, she says, “Why _do_ you fight for Arachne? Given the company you keep, I’m surprised-- she’s hardly better than Star Clan with the things she’s done.”

You’re well aware. You think what she’s planning may even be worse. Looking up, you quietly ask, “Do you know much of the ‘Brightwinged’?”

The woman’s expression becomes guarded, canny eyes watching every nuance in your face. Just as lowly, she replies, “Some. Why do you ask?”

You exchange a glance with Angela, whose eyes are split-focused between you and the kindred cat. “...A bird came to me in a dream and sent me to the Empress.” You take a sip of your ale, watching as an excited smile pulls on the edges of Blair’s full lips.

Leaning over the table with interest, she says, “Tell me, did the bird leave you something? A gift? A token?” You get no chance to answer, because she seems to know from just your face. “The sparrow is a messenger. We hadn’t seen the Brightwinged in nearly 200 years, until the war started. She’s chosen by the gods when a great task must be put into motion.” Blair is all grins and hushed excitement, checking over her shoulder for any nearby eavesdroppers. “This token, what was it?”

“It was a pretty stone,” says Angela. “Like milk, with Empress’s mask carved on it. It didn’t do anything, though…”

“It got us through the palace. We were taken straight to Arachne, no questions asked.”

Blair nods, knotting her fingers together as if to keep them from gesturing wildly. “So you think the sparrow sent you to work for Arachne, and therefore you must slay the Nightwalker.”

“I don't know _what_ to think.” You frown, pushing the ale away. “We were desperate at the time, so I thought it a blessing to put food on our plates, even if by the Empress. But now this mission to slay the kindred god-- I just want to keep the girl safe.”

“Well, perhaps you weren’t sent to help Arachne. What if you were chosen to help _us?”_

“Iron Town?”

Blair shakes her head, pointing first at Angela, and then at herself. You can’t help but squint incredulously at the woman.

“Does that mean we don’t have to kill Masamune?” Angela asks, excited.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” you say, irritated with this whole conversation. To Blair, you murmur, “I can hardly protect one kindred. If I were meant to help them all, why would the gods send someone like me to _Arachne?_ ”

The woman opens her mouth, but she is interrupted by a few bellows workers at the entrance of the dining hall, calling her away for work. “I’ll be there shortly!” Blair yells back. She then proceeds to steal your ale and gulp down a great deal of it. She stands with a satisfied sigh, hands on her hips. She says, “Perhaps you were sent to see something the kindred are blind to.”

Worriedly, Angela whispers, “Mifune?” when your body becomes very still.

Blair retrieves her cloak from a nearby hook and drapes it across her shoulders. “We were born with claws and fangs, mercenary; it isn’t protection we want.” She leans down with a hand on the table, her smile very much feline as she says, “We want _deliverance.”_

The woman says a hasty farewell, hurrying for her turn at the bellows. Brow furrowed, you stare into the empty space she had left behind, Angela’s little clawed toes nudging your cheek with concern.

“Hey, are you still hurt?”

Resting an elbow on the table, you rest your mouth against your fist. You slowly shake your head.

She doesn’t sound convinced, lizard hands still touching your face as she hums an anxious noise in the back of her throat. “Miss Kitty didn’t make any sense…what’s _deliverance_ mean?”

You pull your hand away long enough to say, “To be set free.”

 

\\\

 

Blair’s interpretation of your dream would appeal to someone less disillusioned, but you are not so important as to be a special piece on a game board of the gods-- you are simply an aging man who has become skilled at killing people for a living.

You are far from some savior destined to lead the kindred out of hardship. It’s this kind of self-conceited fantasy that turns warriors into fools on the battlefield, and you have been pacing the tall battlements of Iron Town trying to convince yourself of this long enough to bore Angela out of her skull.

There is no reason for heaven to look at you at all, save for passing judgment on the things you’ve done-- or, perhaps, the things you haven’t. Because after meeting the cursed tribeswoman who had spared your life, the Star Clan assassin who didn’t assassinate you, and the young lord who showed mercy to even those who would kill him, you find yourself wondering if you’ve ever once tried to stop the chain of violence you helped facilitate.

All this time you have been trying to keep Angela safe, but you have never stepped forward for the injustice done to her and her kind. Whether you were chosen by the gods or not, you feel compelled to tell Thane about Arachne’s true intentions. He needs to know her plans of becoming immortal and doubtlessly exploiting the kindred for her personal gain, and you can no longer stand by and simply watch more horrors unfold.

Though you fought on both sides of the war, as a mercenary you were never truly part of Star Clan or the Empire. You’ve always been caught somewhere in between, part of neither, and you think you should fight your own war now.

“Angela,” you say, striding down the long ramps off the battlements. Under your cowl, you feel her shift under your hair where she’d been dozing.

“Huh?”

You turn a corner, heading for Thane’s meeting chambers. “Earlier today, you said you will go where I go. Thank you.”

Her tail uncurls along your neck with her uncertainty. “Oh. Um, you’re welcome,” she says, giving you the response because it is proper, even if it’s clear she doesn’t know why she has your gratitude.

“How did you know I did not want to kill the Night Stag?”

The chameleon inches forward, popping her head out of your cowl. “Ummm. I forgot the word. But you said it means getting rewarded for doing something you don't wanna do. And that's what a mercenary does, right?” You find your stride slowing as she speaks. “But you don't like being a mercenary, ‘cause you grow this old wrinkle in the middle of your forehead when you gotta do stuff you don't like. And you don't like killing, and you _really_ don't like doing stuff that'll hurt my feelin’s, even if you’re getting paid for it.”

You slow to a standstill in the middle of Iron Town, overcome.

Angela carefully leans further out of your cowl, inspecting your face. “Yeah, like that. Wrinkly.”

Your chest is warm, and she hasn’t sung a single note. You begin walking once more. “I will not kill the Night Stag,” you say, a smile pulling at your lips as you fondly watch her cling to your cloak.

With a gasp, Angela tumbles off your collar in a puff of smoke, falling into a girl in the snowy street. _“Really?_ We don’t work for the Empress anymore?”

“We don’t. We don't work for anyone.”

She laughs joyously, dragging her boots through the slush. “Good! I like that the best.”

“Arachne will be mad. She will come looking for us,” you warn her.

“I’ll protect you,” she says, and you are so amused by her reckless confidence as you walk through the door to Thane’s meeting chambers that you do not realize you’ve walked into a mistake. The first thing you see is the golden braid on Medusa’s shoulder as she pushes it out of the way and regards you with a too-wide smile.

You freeze two steps from the doorway, Angela stumbling into you with your sudden stop. The healer woman says, “Oh good, you’re already here. We don’t have to waste any time.”

It’s too late for you to draw your weapon-- there are riflemen stationed in every corner of the room, weapons trained on you. You can’t risk even draping your cloak around the girl to hide her. Cautiously, you ask, “Where is Lord Thane?”

Medusa takes a seat in Thane’s chair, resting her hands neatly on his desk. “That is of little consequence to you,” she says. “There’s been a change in plans. The city is mine now, and I have agreed to Arachne’s terms. We kill the beast, tonight. Make ready, swordsman.”

“I do not understand-”

Your heart drops to the earth when she adds, “Oh, and my sister wants the lizard back.”

 ** _“N--”_** You only have enough time to turn to the girl when a green light pierces through the room, sudden and blinding. Angela is sucked out of your grasp by the light, suspended within a glowing, magic box that blocks out all sounds of her screaming for help. It’s then you hear the low muttering of a Song from behind you, and Kimial, Arachne’s Loresinger, steps forward, directing the floating cage into her waiting hands.

Song completed, the spell remains, Angela beating her fists on green-tinted walls in vain. Coming to stand next to Medusa, Kimial turns to face you, milk-white eyes blank as ever. “Mercenary Mifune, you have stolen property of the Kinmother Empress Arachne. I am here to reclaim it.”

Your hand is white-knuckled on the hilt of your sword, on the verge of drawing the blade even in a room full of firearms. Through clenched teeth, you growl, “I do not wish to harm you. _Release her.”_

“I will not. You have betrayed the Kinmother’s agreement by kidnapping an apprentice Loresinger. Continue your service and aid the Lady Medusa, and you shall not be punished for your cr--”

 **“I renounce my service to Arachne!”** you bellow with rage.

Behind you, a man says, “I was hoping you’d say that,” and as you whirl to cut him down, you catch a glimpse of hair almost as light as yours just before something slams into the side of your head.

 

* * *

 

**_Maka_ **

\\\

You are a walking catastrophe. You are no better than Asura, so desperately seeking relief from your hatred that you endangered an entire city. Everyone else could be dead by now-- it would be Riohdr all over again, the heads of Liz and her sister at your feet. You don’t want to wake up from this one.

Asura’s voice wears you raw, chewing down to the marrow as you float through an endless void of cold and heartache. _The gods have abandoned us._

All except _him_ , you think. Kilik had said the curse would kill you, and you wonder if it is done yet. You came and found the source of the disaster, and all you’ve learned is that you are powerless despite all your strength. Are you simply to die and take the curse with you? Had heaven sent the salamander to you like refuse to a bonfire and set you both alight? What do the gods _want_ with you?

Your hatred clouds your eyes, Demonsbane, says a voice you do not know, twisting around you like stars. The curse in you writhes with loathing. We have waited a long time. There is much for you to do. Wake.

Something warm pulls at your heart. It does not scorch you like the demon god, but is instead like the fire pit at home, comforting as it warms your face. It is a balm to your soul, and you let it carry you away.

You wake under a tall canopy of trees, melting snow dripping down their branches, limb by limb, leaving behind a rich evergreen. The water meets in rivulets that feed into a steaming lake, and though you can see the white glare of winter on the edges of the forest, it is somehow spring here.

The land murmurs. Your connection to Asura allows you to hear the whisper-talk of Raskogr, and you know this must be the Nightwalker’s home. Voices rise from the depths of the lake, warning the forest of an approaching storm, and you have little doubt that the storm is you.

You are propped up against Crona’s familiar belly, stripped down to your tunic and breeches, your limbs so heavy and aching you can hardly move them. Under your right hand is a hoofprint, toed like a deer and humming magic into your fingers.

Sitting an arm’s length away, near Crona’s head, is Soul. Around his neck is your tribe’s soul catcher, which he plays a few cautious notes on. Seeing him jogs your memory, and you recall being shot by an arrow in Iron Town, the bolt clear through your torso.

You quietly reach for the wound. There is a hole in your clothes, but the injury is gone. You are miraculously whole. It’s then you realize your stomach can’t feel the warmth of your fingers.

Gingerly lifting the neck hole of your tunic, you glance down your chest. The curse has spread, your breasts and stomach entwined by blackened scars. The Nightwalker saved your life but Asura’s hatred remains, eating you alive. You manage to drape your arm over your stinging eyes, listening to Soul slowly play a phrase of the virtues of kindred.

“You are very better than me,” you croak, interrupting him in the middle of ‘deer live in gentleness’, tears falling from the edges of your eyes.

He startles and immediately stops playing. After a long pause, he says in your language, “I cannot make that awful sound even when I try.”

The noise you make is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. You keep your arm firmly pressed over your eyes as Crona turns his head to nuzzle at your hair. “Did I hurt anyone?”

Voice hard, he says, “No. You protected Thane, and I still do not understand why. It was the humans who did this to you-- why did you stop me?”

“ _I_ am human, Soul.”

“You are different. You respect the forest, you are the daughter of the Br--”

 _“No,”_ you say, emphatic. Sliding your arm from your face, you lift your head and find his eyes. “I am exactly like them-- I have fought a god to protect my home!” Exhaustion weighs you down, pulling your head back to rest on your elk. The earth hums underneath you, rejecting your tainted body. Frustration tastes bitter in your mouth. “Should I not have? Should I have just fled like a coward and lived?”

“You did exactly what you should have done,” Soul says on a tired sigh. “It is why the gods chose you in the first place.”

 ** _“For what?”_** Crona twitches with the outburst, his legs and shoulders tensing. “They always are choosing and taking and never saying _why--”_ You gasp in pain. Hatred flares under your skin, and you writhe in your own anger, cursed hands clenching in your tunic. “What do they _want_ from me?! I have nothing left!”

Soul quickly comes to your side, frowning as he pries your hands away from your clothes and takes them in his own. “Stop it,” he says, chiding you in Common before making an annoyed wince and switching back to the Old Tongue. “You’ll only aggravate the curse, getting worked up like that.”

 _“Tell the sun to stop burning,”_ you snarl before you can control yourself. You grit your teeth and attempt to suck down a calming breath. You heave a shuddering sigh, fingers clenching around his, searching for warmth but still finding none. After several moments of this, you ask, “Did you bring me to the Nightwalker? Am I not your enemy?”

With a huff, he shares an exasperated glance with Crona, and you notice Soul looks even more like a wolf than when you’d seen him in Iron Town, fine white fur lining the back of his neck. His fingers end in nails reminiscent of claws. He reminds you, vaguely, of Tsugumi-- the outsider brought into the tribe, becoming one of their own.

“Wes and your elk brought us here,” he says, avoiding your eyes with a grimace. “I am told you took an arrow for me, so I find it difficult to hate you.”

The corner of your mouth tries to pick up in something like a smile. “It was mostly an accident. But I am glad it did not find you.”

He tilts his head the way a confused hound would. “Why would you be glad, when you protect Thane?”

“I don’t want _anyone_ to get hurt,” you insist. A breeze moves across the steaming lake, a warm mist dusting your face. You watch the branches of nearby trees stir. “Sometimes I see you and I remember home. Your howl is beautiful.”

Shocked, Soul drops your hands, leaning away as if you had directly accosted him. “I-- When did you--”

“I am sorry about your mother,” you say.

The man’s shoulders sag at this, his dismay falling away to leave behind something both quiet and strong. “The Nightwalker will take Moro to the sky. She will protect us in death, as do all the wolves of Raskogr before her,” he says, placing his hands in his lap.

“Wolves protect,” you unthinkingly recite.

“Yes.”

“How do you know that song? You were playing it.”

“Your friend,” he says, slipping into Common again. “I told him he could go where he wanted, but he stayed. He loves you very much. He’s told me about your village.”

You raise one of your hands and reach back to rub Crona’s plush fur.

Soul says, “We’re the same, you know. You and I. Having gods for mothers.”

There is a twisting in your heart, your hand pausing on the elk’s belly. You look at him and realize you share a similar sadness, and you wish you could sit as tall with yours as he does with his. “I don’t remember her voice any more.”

The look he gives you is nothing short of incredulous. With a small shake of his head, Soul leans forward and says in the Old Tongue, “Maka, of course you do. Do you not feel the wind when she speaks?”

Your mouth falls open as you try to comprehend what he means, but your thoughts are interrupted.

“Soul.”

The man abruptly stands, eyes wide and anxious as he focuses on a point behind you. “Tsubaki. Have you found her?”

As you shakily push yourself up into a sitting position, a hand reaches over Crona’s back and lights gently on your shoulder. “Do not look for me, Demonsbane. Asura’s hatred will rise when he sees the Old Gods he so loathes.” To Soul, Tsubaki says, “Moro is with the farseer. She dies.”

Despair flits over the man’s face, but he quickly replaces it with determination. “I must go to her,” he says, looking down at you.

You are breathless from merely sitting up. “Go. Take Crona,” you say without hesitation. “You must watch her when she leaves.”

Soul shakes his head, conflicted. “No, I will run, I will not leave you here alone--”

“You will both go,” says Tsubaki, her hand pulling away from your shoulder. A moment later, Wes leaps out of the forest and into the warm clearing, panting hard.

“Brother. She calls for us.”

 

\\\

 

You had forgotten about Asura’s mark on the land. To get to Stein’s hut from the Nightwalker’s lake you must cross it, and here in this part of the forest, where the demon’s touch is oldest, the earth bubbles and cracks like Lord Sephtis’s face.

Soul and Wes lead you to a makeshift bridge that arcs over the path, the wolf god leaping to a felled tree and ambling across.

Slumped over on your elk, your head is filled with a deafening chorus of voices, paralyzing feelings of betrayal and resentment hissing from the scar. Your curse inches across your skin, and you lose the warmth of Crona’s back. You whimper, the pain rendering your mind numb as you press your face into the elk’s neck.

A chuckle bubbles up your throat.

“Maka?” Soul calls out, twisting on Wes’s back.

“I will not be denied,” you hear the demon say, or maybe the voice is yours-- you are so entwined with Asura now that there is little separation between your rage and his. Crona bellows in response, angered as you are angered.

“The Dead Path resonates with her,” Wes says. “The salamander makes her weak. It calls her spirit away.”

You tilt your head back and roar to the gods, all your hatred a bullet hole that festers and rots deep in your chest. Black and red fire shrieks along your arms, swirling about you in a torrent of howling power.

Cutting through the storm like a blade, you hear a silvery note.

You take a ragged, whistling gasp, your soul caught between heaven and earth. More piercing notes reach you through your madness, and you focus on the melody, curling back into Crona’s neck. You clutch at the elk’s reins and slowly lead him to the bridge, running the virtues through your heart. Bears, crows, wolves and lizards. Deer live in gentleness. Sparrows breathe with hope.

Does Suzume breathe so? Had she spoken to you all along, while you had been too deafened by your own resentment of heaven to hear her?

Your soul returns to your body. You cross the Dead Path, and though your hands have begun to bleed under your bandages, you are still yourself.

“There you are,” Soul says on the other side, your catcher still in his hands.

To his and Wes’s worried glances, you give a small smile. “I am all right now. Let us hurry.”

Soul nods, tucking the necklace under his clothes. “If it happens again, I will bring you back.”

 

\\\

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Marie quietly says, seeing the black scars that snake up your neck and under your jaw. She helps you slide off Crona’s back so Wes and Soul can go to their mother; your knees wobble as you try to stand on your own, forcing you to rely on Marie to stay upright.

You look over your shoulder to see the mountainous white form of Moro. All you manage to gather in your brief glimpse is that she rests on her side near the treeline-- any longer a look than that and your body aches with the demon’s rage. You carefully avert your eyes.

Marie helps you over to the treeline, blocking your vision with a warm hand and leading you near Wes, Soul, and Stein. She turns you so that you face away from Moro, holding you steady while keeping a hand on Stein to keep him from resonating with the earth.

“Where have you been, Mother?” Wes asks, a whine threading his words together.

Soul adds, “We could have _done_ something!”

Moro must take a deep breath before speaking, something deep in her body whistling from the effort. “I conferred with the wolves of old. This is where my path leads,” you hear her say in the Old Tongue. Even weakened, her voice makes the trees tremor with her might, evergreens shivering. She takes another breath. “You have already known this. Soul has been changing since the moment I was shot.”

Facing away from everyone else, you see a crow fly into the clearing, turning into a black-cloaked man with a swirling of smoke. When the kindred pushes his hood from his face, you recognize him from Iron Town-- he’s one of the men who had helped protect Thane from Soul.

He recognizes you easily, freezing mid-step and warily regarding you, but before anything can be said, Moro says, “Harvar.” He keeps a careful eye turned your way until he passes beyond your line of sight.

“How dare you show your face,” Soul spits.

When Harvar speaks the Old Tongue, you realize with a start that his accent is nearly identical to yours. “I know we have been at odds for several years, but I never once wished this upon you, Moro.”

“You helped _cause it!_ ”

“Enough, brother--”

“No,” says Harvar, “He is right. It was I who gave Thane the gun that morning. This is my doing--”

Behind you, everything seems to erupt: Soul howls in anger, and you hear crunching snow and the loud scuffle of bodies hitting the earth. There’s the gnashing sound of snapping jaws, and Marie and Stein are forced to leave your side, the both of them trying to break up whatever is happening behind you. You fall to your knees without Marie’s support, unable to look back lest you see Moro and lose control.

There’s a roar of an angry bear, and Soul suddenly tumbles across the ground in front of you. He is unharmed, already back up on his feet in seconds, but before he can jump back into the fray, Moro bellows, “ **BE STILL**.”

Soul winces, and you hear Wes grumble-whine somewhere behind you. The clearing echoes with the sound of several people catching their breaths.

Moro takes another whistling inhale. “There is no time. Crow, even with all your knowledge and Stein’s farsight, there is little you could have done. The stars have been turning towards this moment for years. This was to pass.”

The kindred grunts, short of breath. You watch Soul’s narrowed, angry eyes follow Harvar as he stands up, boots scuffing the earth. “I still feel responsible. It is my task to stop you when you become a demon.”

Then, to your surprise, Moro _laughs_ , the trees shaking in her amusement. “I will not become a demon, crow-- I am a wolf! Though there is anger in my heart, I will not cause more death.” The god chuckles once more, then takes another breath. “One demonsbane is enough. Soul, bring her closer.”

With an uneasy sigh, the man comes and kneels next to you, a brusque frown mask-like on his face. He slings your arm over the back of his neck, hoisting you up with his right hand around your waist. Carefully supporting you, he uses his free hand to gently cover your eyes before he turns you around and leads you forward.

Moro’s snout ghosts over you, her sniffing forceful enough that you must cling to Soul’s clothes to stay steady. Her proximity, even without seeing her, makes your blood split into thousands of angry voices. You tremble.

The god takes another whistling breath. “I thank you and the crow both for stopping my son in the human city. Revenge is not something wolves condone.” Moro breathes. “Only the Nightwalker may decide who dies-- for us to try is to walk a demon’s path.” 

Soul flinches against you, fingers twitching over your eyes. “I am sorry, Mother,” he murmurs.

“It is the human in you that feels so strongly, Soul. Do not let that go.” The next breath Moro takes rattles deep in her chest, halting and strained. “Stein,” she says, powerful voice diminished by half. “Raskogr braces itself for calamity. This is your chance.” Every word she says swiftly becomes less earth-shaking than the last. “Use me, farseer, and find what threatens our home.”

“It will be done,” says Stein.

“The Nightwalker comes. Ah, my sons,” Moro says with a note of despair, sounding so startlingly human that it pierces your heart. A breeze stirs through the forest, the treetops above you swaying together. “Be strong. We choose to protect life.”

A hush falls over the clearing, and you hear the soft tread of hooves behind you in the snow. The hand on your waist suddenly clenches, Soul’s body quaking as he holds in his grief. Moro’s last words ringing dreamlike in your ears, you slowly reach for your face, wrapping your fingers around Soul’s hand and pulling it away from your eyes.

Antlers bearing the heavens, a towering stag stands before you, shifting lights swirling under his coat. Seeing him spreads the curse to your toes in a searing wave, Asura’s resentment of the god who had not saved him melding his hatred to your bones.

You tell the demon that deer live in gentleness, and though your body burns, you remain steadfast. The Nightwalker bows before Moro, lowering his head and pressing one small tine of his crown to her shoulder. He draws a pale blue light from her body, a new, bright star blooming in his antlers.

Wes howls.

Soul makes a sound in his throat, and when you look, you find he has averted his eyes. You twist in his grip, slinging your arms around his neck and quietly embracing him. “Do not look away,” you warn him gently. “Do not close your eyes.” You feel him pick up his head. Over your shoulder, Soul watches his mother leave.

When the Nightwalker has collected Moro’s soul, he departs the way he came, walking between Soul and Wes and into your line of sight. Seasons pass under his feet, winter melting into spring, burning to summer, withering to autumn, the ground frozen by the time his hooves move on. He turns his glowing gaze on you as he passes, your curse claiming every last inch of your skin, but when the god of gods speaks within your soul, your eyes are unclouded.

The Brightwinged chose well.

The stag slips into the forest. The moment he’s out of sight, Soul's hands suddenly clutch at you, claws digging through your clothes. You scream as he bursts into flames in your arms.

“Soul?!” His skin rends open, blinding white fire enveloping him entirely. Marie and Harvar rush over, trying to pull him away from you, but the flames burn them, keeping them at bay.

Soul falls to his knees, bringing you with him, and though you do not feel the heat of the flames, you feel his body change under your hands. You finally understand what is happening, and you almost cry out for him to _wait_ \--

His arms fall away, the flames going out, and in your embrace is a wolf. He slowly slips out of your arms. After only the briefest glance to Moro’s body, he bolts out of the clearing without a word.

“Wait, brother--” calls Wes, but Soul disappears into Raskogr. Tail dusting the ground, the wolf turns to Stein and says, “I will find him. Do not let Mother’s death be wasted.”

 

\\\

 

“It’s hard for him, being a man with the soul of a wolf. He cannot accept one without neglecting the other,” Marie says in Common, realizing belatedly that her paws are too big to prepare tea. Stein requires solitude to gaze into the future, so she had led both you and Harvar into the hut, leaving the farseer to his work. She turns into a plume of smoke, becoming human and filling a kettle with water from a basin. “But he’s been called. He’s made his choice.”

Havar helps you into a chair near the wood stove, not knowing that its warmth is wasted on you entirely. He retreats to a dark corner of the room, arms crossed underneath his cloak. “He shouldn’t have needed to make the choice to begin with,” he says with a sigh. ”I tried my best to prevent it, but it still all went as Stein predicted in the end.”

“You cannot stop what comes to pass, Harvar. You can only choose what you do when it happens.” She places the kettle over the stove and glances over you with concern, then kneels before you, inspecting the blackened bandages around your hands. “With Moro’s death, Soul chose to help protect the Nightwalker.”

“Please,” you say, trying to understand. “Soul is having choice?”

Marie blinks up at you with her one eye. “Yes. He was called, like your mother was,” she says, which only makes you furrow your brow.

“Her mother?”

“Maka’s mother is the Brightwinged of our time,” Marie says over her shoulder to Harvar, and the man’s arms slowly fall to his sides in astonishment. When she turns back to you and sees your confusion, she leans away on her heels, perturbed. Your hands in hers, she carefully says, “To be called is to resonate with the gods. There must be consent, like with Stein and I.”

Your fingers clench around Marie’s. “...And my mother, she is also having choice?”

“Yes,” the woman says, quickly nodding. “Maka, did you think she was _taken_ all this time?” She reaches up and wipes your cheek with a hand. “Your mother decided for herself. She helps us fi--”

Someone knocks on the door to Stein’s hut.

Harvar is instantly on alert, silently gliding to the door. “...Who _knocks_ in the middle of Raskogr,” he says lowly, and Marie releases you, standing and transforming into a bear in one smooth movement.

“Well, it’s not Stein,” she says, lumbering across the room. “He doesn’t open the door, much less knock.” Marie slaps the latch with her paw and noses the door open.

Dusk has settled outside, and as you lean over to see around Marie and Harvar, you're shocked to see dozens of _animals_ on the other side. Birds, weasels, dogs, and foxes all swarm together, deer and horses towering over them with lizards and rodents riding their backs.

“Good gods, what are all of you doing here?” Marie asks.

There is a puff of smoke, and a young woman with pale, pin-straight hair appears, performing the Bloodless Bow. “We are here to help the crow and the cat.”

Harvar haltingly bows back. “Eruka, what’s this about?”

“You and Blair have helped all of us escape Star Clan and the Empire, so we’ve come to repay you,” she says. “We are sent by the Brightwinged.”

Marie swings her big head between the woman and Harvar, asking, “For what?”

 _“Excuse me,”_ you hear Stein say from outside, animals squawking and squealing as he pushes through. “Yes, this _is_ blood, please stand aside--” The man shambles into view, resting his bloodstained hands on the door frame, his face somewhat wolfish. The glowing trail from his eye swirls a bright blue. “Something big is coming, the whole forest feels it,” he says breathlessly, and then his eye searches for you, finding you sitting on the edge of your chair, anxious. “I thought it was you, Maka, but I was wrong.”

“What have you seen?” asks Harvar.

Stein smiles, teeth like Moro’s fangs. “Something _new_. But first, Harvar--” he gives his head a shake, and his silvery hair becomes slightly less fur-like. “Thane has been betrayed. You must return to Iron Town swiftly.”

 

* * *

 

**_Thane_ **

\\\

Blue eyes focused on your mouth, he shifts to one side, leaning off the bed and into your personal space. His hand reaches for you, scarred fingers neatly covering the steam rising from the top of your teacup. He presses this away, drawing both it and you closer while he leans in, slowly tilting his face to yours. Warm breath touches your lips as you feel him attempt to pull the cup from your hold just a shade too hard.

He turns to stone when you press the point of his own dagger against his throat. Your left hand does not easily hold it, but at this range it hardly matters. He had mistakenly underestimated your mobility entirely, as well as your intelligence-- he had been too intent on poisoning your cup to notice you slipping the weapon into your robes.

A hair’s breadth from his lips, you murmur, “Stealing my tea?” You give the cup a small tug and he releases it.

“Don’t drink that,” he says with a grimace. You set the cup on the tray and switch the dagger from your left hand to your right, encouraging him to back away with its razor edge.

Today persists in being the worst day in your life. You stand from the chair, hand steady. “Why not, Black Star?”

“Are we ignoring the part where I stopped you from killing yourself, because I think this is a valid thing to consider,” he says, chin tilted up in an attempt to keep his neck from being flayed as he speaks. “How long have you known?”

“I have _always_ known, cannibal. I knew you the moment I found you in Raskogr.” Your disappointment and fury make your lips pull back in a snarl. “I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to try to kill me-- I’ve given you every opportunity.”

Black Star’s eyes roll to the heavens and back again. “ _You_ found me? If you’ve known the whole time, why the hell am I still alive?”

“Because the Nightwalker’s shadow led me to you,” you spit, eyes narrowing as you now feel even more betrayed than five seconds ago.

“That’s it?” he snaps back, though there is a wince in his face that belies his harsh voice. “Your only reason is some shadow in a beastling forest?” Something in his countenance changes, and what little there ever was of a man named ‘Blade’ instantly vanishes from his face, replaced by an arrogant sneer fit only for a son of the Warbringer. The hooded look he gives you is a blood-boiling _challenge_ , and though he’s unarmed and has a knife at his throat, he suddenly does not look at all defenseless. Voice like woodsmoke, he says, _“Well, she’s not here now, is she?”_

You hate this day so wholly that it inspires violence. “You’re right.” With a smile, you slowly dig that knife just a bit deeper under his jaw, watching him swallow. “It’s not the only reason,” you grit out through clenched teeth. “I wanted to know why a god would spare the son of a man who _started a war.”_ And then you smash your splinted left hand into his still-healing face.

You’d wanted to know what made him so _special_ , and had hoped that if you knew, you would find some hope for yourself-- that you would find a way to fix this mess your father has wrought without invoking the wrath of heaven.

There’s no chance for you, after that. You’re drained both physically and mentally, swordless, and up against a Star Clan assassin. He has you pinned on the bed in moments, both your wrists trapped in one of his hands above your head, your broken splints digging uncomfortably into your skin. Your vision blurs at the edges when he digs his knees into the sides of your ribs, a groan slipping out your mouth.

He has disarmed you of the dagger, and he carelessly flings this onto the stool next to the bed, where it sticks like a knife in a butcher block. Then, for some reason, he shifts his weight and relieves your discomfort.

You are no closer now to understanding why Tsubaki saved this man than you were the last time he’d pinned you down. “What are you _doing_ here, Black Star?” you ask, weary.

At least he’s come away from the brief scuffle with blood in his mouth, which he casually spits away. “Probably something stupid.” He wipes his lips on the back of his forearm. Bluntly, he says, “White Star wants the Deer God, so I will use its head to buy my freedom from the Clan.”

“Get in line,” you say, glowering, but then his words truly sink in. “Freedom?”

Black Star shakes his head, irritated. “It’s a long story. The point is, Medusa tried to kill me--”

“She didn’t do a very good job.”

“Would you do me the favor of _not talking?”_ he growls under his breath, then suddenly lifts his head, cautiously listening. You hear nothing, and evidently neither does he. “Anyway, in order to not **die** , I told her my sire would make a deal with her if she helped me get the Deer God.”

 _“Medusa,”_ you blurt, struggling to get up, but he has no qualms using your ribs against you. You flop back to the bed, seething. “My healer working with the Warbringer is worse than the than the one about your ‘weaponsmith’ family--”

“Please shut up. Your ‘healer’ has been poisoning you and Sephtis from the start.”

The impersonal, guileless way he says this makes your body go slack. “What?” you silently mouth, and just the merest mention of the concept brings everything you’ve been ignoring into bright focus: Blair’s distrust, your father’s blood-soaked descent into madness, your dreams of the salamander burning you alive--

Black Star gives you a look that might have been sympathetic if you thought he had ever once known the concept-- as it is, he looks more scornful than anything. “Are you listening now, _my lord_? She’s been after the city since long before I showed up. I told her that in exchange for the god, we would ally with Iron Town and help _put her in charge by murdering you.”_

Bile rises in your throat. “I don’t--”

Leaning down and lowering his voice, he says, “She’s been trying to convince you to take Arachne’s terms, hasn’t she? Using the mercenary to do the dirty work and then taking the Deer God for yourself to save your father? She’s been _poisoning_ him. _And_ you--” And he takes his hand down the center of your robes, gaping them open to your hips and pushing up your tunic to reveal your awful torso. “Bruised ribs don’t look like this, Thane. Ask me how I know.”

You try to piece everything together, but you can’t stop shivering, your body tearing between shock and fury. You think you’re going to be sick. “You’re the one who stopped me from using the poultice,” you say, voice thin. And you’ve been getting better without it, which is proof in itself, isn’t it? “Why would you do that? If you’re to kill m--”

Black Star looks away, his hand clenching involuntarily around your wrists as he hisses an emphatic, “ _I don’t know!_ But Medusa found out you stopped using it and you’re taking too long to say ‘yes’ to Arachne, so she told me to slip some shit into your _tea._ ”

It occurs to you then, hitting you like a bullet, that Medusa hasn’t been poisoning your father-- she’s been having _you_ do it. “Get off me.”

He hesitates, something wavering in his expression, but he pulls his lips into a thin line instead and releases you. As you gingerly sit up, he backs away, yanking his knife out of the stool for good measure. “You understand, right? You’re supposed to be dead right now.”

One hand on your ribs, you rise from the bed with a wince. You need to form a plan of action to have Medusa detained, but all you can ask is, “Why _aren’t_ I dead? Not that it wasn’t obvious-- you're about as stealthy as Ox-- but you did, technically, stop me. That’s twice you’ve saved me from poison.”

Black Star struggles to answer you, one hand rubbing at the cut on his jaw.

 **“I renounce my service to Arachne!”** someone angrily roars from the connecting room, you and Black Star both startling. By process of elimination, it must be the swordsman, Mifune--

“Thane, _what are you doing,”_ Black Star hisses. “What part of ‘dead’ do you find complicated? Medusa has your riflemen now, and probably any other guards you have other than the stupid loud one--”

Ox will certainly lecture you about this later. “I’m going to tell Medusa what she wants to hear _,_ ” you say, wrenching open the door.

 


	7. gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Black Star_ **

\\\

 

He didn’t even take his _sword._ You’ve only just painstakingly saved his life and the first thing the idiot does is walk out of his chambers half undressed and demanding, “ **What is the meaning of this?** ”

Grabbing your knives, you lurk near the door, staying out of sight. You have no idea what is going on, but that had certainly been the mercenary who had renounced his service.

You hear Medusa answer, voice nauseatingly demure. “The swordsman has fallen into disfavor with the Empress, my lord. I am sorry we have disturbed your…rest?”

There is a short pause, and you hear the rustling of fabric as Thane straightens his clothes. “Who are these people? Have you just killed a man _in my quarters?”_

“He is merely unconscious, my lord. This is Arachne’s replacement emissary, Giriko. This is Loresinger Kimial, who has come to escort the girl kidnapped by the swordsman.”  

Thane layers just enough off-handed concern in his voice to sound like the self-important prince you had first judged him to be. “Have him detained and looked over. Is that cage necessary?”

“I am afraid so.”

“Hmph. Giriko, then.”

You hear a creaking of leather and metal, a drawling voice you do not know replying, “My lord.”

“I have decided to take Arachne’s offer. Be ready to leave by morning.” And then, with no room for objection, Thane says, “ _Blade.”_

You curse him to the nine hells and back before you peek your head around the door, trying your best not to look like an assassin. With a quick glance, you take in the state of the room: Mifune is sprawled on the floor, his girl held aloft in some kind of _spell_ by a woman with white eyes; an excessive amount of armed riflemen line the walls and guard the doorway you stand in; and standing behind Thane is Medusa, her furious eyes boring holes into your brain. “Yes, my lord?”

He gives you a playful smile, looking so utterly genuine that it gives you the chills. “I will take you up on your offer. You will track the Nightwalker and lead us to him.”

With an awkward bow, you reply, “As you command.”

You do your best not to let your eye twitch when he tucks a side of his dark hair behind an ear and says, “Get _dressed,”_ with emphasis enough to make Medusa’s eyebrows reach for the ceiling, “and fetch my cloak. We have much to discuss. Riflemen, I want all weapons inspected by Jacqueline before the night is out.” Thane then casually steps over the mercenary’s body and sweeps out the door. Alive.

Lip curled with displeasure, Medusa cocks a hip, resting an elbow in a hand and gesturing for an explanation.

You shrug. “He wasn’t thirsty?”

A tall man wearing a Clan-worthy amount of weapons gives you an unimpressed once over. “Are you sure?” he asks, and his voice places him as Giriko, Arachne’s replacement dog. He’s blonde. Big surprise.

Inspecting your own attire, you notice you’re a little disheveled, yourself. You also taste blood lingering on your lips. You don’t have to fake your smile at all, dipping your tongue into the corner of your mouth. To Medusa, you say, “You were right-- he’s quite hardy.”

The woman scowls, shaking her head. “It matters not for now. We have a deer to hunt. Best fetch the young lord’s cloak, _Blade._ ”

 

\\\

 

“When you said ‘serve under you’ I did not think you meant this,” you growl, tugging the hood of your cloak further down your face while carrying his sword like a damned squire.

Thane turns down a street at a quick pace and you match his stride, trying to reorient yourself-- you only know Iron Town from rooftop level. “Oh? How did you think I meant it?” he asks, which you refuse to answer. “You’ll have more opportunities to fail at assassinating me if Medusa thinks you are my servant and bedwarmer. Ahh, Blair was right all along-- I can't believe she has my _riflemen--”_

“I did not _fail_ to assassinate you, I chose **not** to.” Even as you say it, you know Ivory would kick you in the kidney for spewing something so ridiculous. “Where in the hells are we going--”

“Ox,” Thane says, adjusting his own cloak.

Before you can open your mouth to complain, the chief of guard sticks his head out of a building the moment you and Thane walk past it. It is a miracle you don’t stab him on reflex.

“Sir.”

“I may have agreed to kill the Nightwalker. No, I definitely agreed to kill him. Walk,” orders Thane, and now the three of you are taking some weird jaunt down street as night falls on Iron Town.

“I see you’re still alive, ‘Blade’,” Ox greets, saying your false name like he’s biting into a rotten apple. You groan under your hood. To Thane, he says, “Blair has confirmed it-- she’s seen the healer woman intercepting messages. Two more Imperials were let through the gate without my permission.”

Thane growls under his breath, taking his weapon from you and buckling his sword belt. “We’ve met. One attacked Mifune, and the other trapped the chameleon girl in some type of Loresong spell. Everything has gone completely mad. Medusa controls the riflemen-- oh, and she tried to have me poisoned.”

Ox turns his helmeted head to you, accusations clear behind his spectacles, and you snap, “He didn't take it, _obviously._ What exactly are we doing right now?”

“Thinking,” Thane says, turning another corner.

“About _what?_ You people don't have contingency plans for usurpers?”

The lord and his right hand both look at you as if you’re an entirely different species. “Amateurs,” you say.

“Do you think she wants the deer’s head for herself?” asks Ox.

Snorting, you reply, “She can want it all she likes, I’m leaving with it.”

“I’ll kill you before you lay a finger on it. You should have let Harvar shoot this one,” the guard complains to the lord.

Abruptly, Thane stops in his tracks, his broken wrist raising mid-thought. “Ah--” Just as suddenly as he had stopped, he moves forward once more, finger to his bottom lip. “Ox. Get the sisters, Liz and Patti, and also Jacqueline. Bring them to me.”

“What do you intend to do?”

A cold fury sweeps across Thane’s face, the lanterns of Iron Town glowing like a forge in his eyes. “I will bring order to this madness.”

 

\\\

 

It is a longer trek to the lake than it should be -- what should have only taken an hour at this pace takes the better part of the day. The shadows of the forest play with your sense of direction, and you think it is Tsubaki buying her brother time.

She had apparently led _Thane_ to you in the forest, and you don’t understand what she wants from you. All she’s managing to do is shake your convictions, making you rethink the foundations of your life. You don’t care about beastlings or their gods, but lately you have wondered if you _should_. Every kinlover you have been at odds against has defeated you horribly: Maka and her demonic rage, Mifune and his lizard girl, and Medusa, who cowed you into revealing White Star’s plan by using her own venom on you.

And then you have Thane, who defeated you with…what? The betrayal on his face when you tried to poison him? The smell of his burning skin, reminiscent of the people your sire eats? His willingness to bear the burden of his father’s mistakes and try to right them?

Still, despite all this, you purposefully neglected to mention the orders White Star had given you through your half-sister. You are here for one thing, and you will not come this close to your goal and not touch it. You will stay the course and wait for a signal.

You lead Thane, Ox, Giriko, and a long line of Iron Town’s riflemen through Raskogr. Medusa has tagged along as well, Thane having appointed her as his new advisor in Harvar’s absence. You think he must find enjoyment in putting himself at the forefront of the most perilous situations possible.

Finally the lake comes into view, the sun setting behind tall, blossoming trees. You hear the murmurs of awe as most of the company take in the eternal spring the place seems to keep, the mossy shoreline of the lake a lush green.

You look over your shoulder at Thane. “This is where he walks.”

Thane plants a long hand cannon at his feet, hands resting on its barrel. “Riflemen into position,” he orders the company.

You glance around the clearing, looking for any sign of Ivory, though you know such a thing is futile. Looking inward, you test the small part of yourself that always seems to flicker with shadows, but Tsubaki is evasive, which only puts you more on edge.

Medusa comes up on your left, her pupils tiny slivers for a moment as she gives you a venomous look. It’s clear she expects chaos, and wants you to murder Thane when an opportunity presents itself, but you have your own plans.

As the daylight fails, a wind begins to blow, the trees surrounding the lake groaning from the powerful gusts. Steam rolls off the lake, swirling with the coming of the Nightwalker. Ox stands to Thane’s right, large hand cannon hefted to his shoulder and held at the ready.

Giriko rubs his hands together, walking towards the lake’s edge. “I’ve been lookin’ forward to this.”

“You won’t be needed,” says Thane, looking upon the man with serene indifference. He raises his right hand, signalling the riflemen around the lake. “Stand aside and watch how we slay gods.”

The blond scoffs, bowing somewhat facetiously to the lord before moving out of the way to stand by Medusa. Then, behind him, you see a glow moving through the trees.

When Masamune steps out of the forest, the winds abruptly die, as if he is the eye of a storm. He is a massive stag, spilling bright, shivering light in beams across the earth. His translucent antlers are impossible to count, ever-shifting in number, bright jewels suspended inside them.

He steps on the lake as if it were solid earth. Standing in its center, the Nightwalker stretches his face toward the darkening sky, the gems in his crown feeding tiny threads of light into the night to paint the heavens in stars. The stag slowly transforms, standing on hind legs that change into something vaguely human. His hooves turn to hands and feet, spine lengthening to stand tall like a man.

You don’t know why you’re so shocked to see that the god of the kindred _is_ kindred. Something in your heart winces, and you think he feels that twinge in you. Though he has no reason to look away from the heavens, the Nightwalker turns his head down to you, the glowing lamps of his eyes boring into your own.

Wait-- you don’t think you want this anymore.

Thane yells, “Fire!”

All the riflemen around the lake light their firearms in unison, simultaneously shooting the Nightwalker. The noise nearly breaks your eardrums, ricocheting off the lake and cracking through the air.

To your shock, the god remains whole, still slowly growing in height with his transformation. He’s past the treetops now, his deer snout morphing into a human face. You look around and find that every rifle misfired, shooting harmless charges.

“It is some kindred sorcery, sir! Our weapons have been claimed by the Nightwalker!” shouts Ox, who is clearly a worse actor than you are.

Medusa hisses at this, grabbing a knife from one of the many strapped to Giriko’s chest. “You foolish bastard-- _They’ve tampered with the rifles!”_ she yells. She throws the knife at Thane, which Ox easily deflects with the barrel of his weapon, but she snatches Thane’s hand cannon from his hands.

“No!” he cries, and without much thought, your legs are already in motion, running to stop her as she takes aim. You distantly hear, _“Stop! Black Star--”_ and Thane brings you down, falling on top of you.

You hear Medusa fire the cannon, the sound immediately followed by a scream that you know must belong to Masamune--

Atop you, a vicious smile rips across Thane’s face. The weapon had done more than misfire-- it had exploded entirely, leaving Medusa writhing on the ground with little remaining of her arms, eyes wide with shock.

You look back to Thane, whose virulent grin speaks of his hatred. And then, behind him and just beyond Ox, you see Ivory Star drop down from the trees. There’s something horrific about her, deformed and rodent-like, a rope of a tail whipping behind her as magic crawls along her body.

Your half-sister pulls her cloak aside, revealing the mechanical monstrosity she always wears, and she looks at you with a triumphant smile as she triggers the device, a barrage of needles hurtling towards the Nightwalker.

She doesn’t miss.

Masamune has a gaping hole in his neck, the wound expanding, revealing a darkness inside of him that fills you with awe and dread. His head comes loose, plummeting from the sky to fall like a stone into the lake, eyes devoid of suns.

“Was that so hard, brother?” Ivory says, and you understand what she's become when you see the stolen blessings in her eyes-- your sister has eaten the mouse kindred your shared father had turned to cannibalism.

A terrible wailing is the only reply, the headless body of the Deer God turning itself inside-out as black, oozing blood gurgles up the severed neck, the lights in his body spilling out. The heavens stop in an eternal twilight, the stars refusing to turn. Raskogr itself seems to screech a death rattle.

Ivory dashes for the lake before anyone has the sense to react, though Arachne’s subordinate is not far behind, racing her for the Nightwalker’s head.

The clearing breaks into chaos, the god reaching out to find his head and destroying everything he touches. Trees wither, the earth scorches to dust, and the riflemen who had turned on Thane instantly breathe their last. The stars in his body fall to the earth, burrowing into the ground only to crawl back out of it, lights stretched along the bones of the dead and bringing them back to life.

“No,” Thane says, gone white as winter. “No, this was not supposed to-- **_STOP THEM!_** ” he roars, scrambling off you and running after Ivory and Giriko himself, straight into the heart of madness.

Ox charges after him, and you’re back on your feet, not far behind when something black and gold darts by, shooting past the both of you. It’s a massive snake, chunks of its body missing and bleeding-- and you don’t have any time to call out to Thane before Medusa strikes, cleanly taking his left arm off at the shoulder as she rushes by and dives into the lake.

Thane tumbles to the ground on the shore, mouth wide in a soundless scream. You and Ox are at his side, and you fend off the horrific undead corpses of the riflemen who roam the clearing.

“Sir. _Thane--_ gods damn it, this is too much blood,” Ox says, using the man’s cloak to wrap around the stump of his shoulder. “We have to get him out of here--”

“Well, that’s looking impossible,” you snarl, narrowly dodging a globule of the black blood seeping across the surface of the lake. Then you hear Ivory’s machine fire again, and you look over just in time to see both Giriko and your sister, knee-deep in water and each with a hand on Masamune’s antlers, get swallowed whole by Medusa.

You can’t comprehend what’s happening, now. Kindred eating Star Clan eating-- you’ve lost track. All you know is that this clearing is getting more crowded by the second, the Nightwalker’s body at odds with the towering, many-headed serpent Medusa becomes, stars swirling in her dozens of eyes. She takes off through the forest, leaving destruction in her wake.

The headless Deer God stretches his arms after her, one of his hands slamming into the forest well beyond your line of sight. The earth heaves under your feet, trees crashing around the turbulent lake. Masamune makes another slow-motion swipe for Medusa, and though you brace yourself for impact, it never comes. There are only more walking corpses to contend with, and you think out of everyone you’ve led to the Nightwalker’s lake, only you, Ox, and Thane remain alive.

This is your fault, isn’t it? You’ve helped create the tenth hell because you hadn’t warned Thane about Ivory and your father’s orders. You angrily shout, kicking back a skeleton while Ox lifts Thane to his feet. You attempt to carve out anything close to resembling a safe path for them with your daggers, but you have to watch the guard’s back as well. A rifleman’s corpse stumbles out of the lake and reaches out for him and Thane, so you double back to knock it into the water.

“Black Star.”

You whirl around to find Tsubaki, her antlers a bit more crooked than you remember. In this eternal grey twilight, she is full like the moon, face peering into yours.

“Help me.”

“What!?” You dodge the jaws of some kind of undead animal while Ox carries Thane away. “What exactly do you think I can do? I can throw a knife at him but I don’t think--”

“The wolves and the Demonsbane hunt the snake. Resonate with me.”

“What does that even _mean?_ ” you ask, but you already think you know, somehow, in that piece of you that’s been altered by her, linking your shadows together.

“I have no light of my own. I am not strong enough to stop my brother alone. Become my stars and we shall be the Nightwalker.”

“Will that work?”

“I do not know. But I think I was born for this. And so were you, son of a fallen star.” She holds out her shadowy hand just as her brother heaves up his, aiming for the two of you. “Together, we will be greater than any god has been or will ever be.”

“Black Star!” you hear Thane shout. You look up to see him wild-eyed, he and Ox both watching you as sheets of Masamune’s blood block you off from escaping.

You take Tsubaki’s hand, the place where you touch turning to light. You give Thane one last glance and step forward, your wavering heart breaking free.

 

* * *

 

**_Mifune_ **

\\\

You wake inside a prison cell, your nose filled with the acrid smell of smoke. Eyes watering, you sit up from a bench and look over your shoulder at the exact moment that the kindred crow, Harvar, hurries to the wrought-iron door that cages you.

He’s covered in blood, but he moves swiftly enough to suggest it doesn’t belong to him. “The building’s on fire-- you need to get out,” he says before even looking to see who you are, working a heavy key into the padlock. Once it’s unlocked, he finally _sees_ you, freezing in place. _“Swordsman.”_

“What’s happened?”

“I have no gods-damned idea!” he snarls, wrenching the door open and leading you out of the smoking prison hallway, pointing you towards the exit. “I’m gone for a few days and my lord goes missing and my home is on fire and--”

He’s interrupted by the thundering sound of a war horn. You close your eyes; it has been a long time since you’ve last heard it, and it is still too soon.

Harvar doesn’t bother explaining any further, digging through an open crate filled with prisoners’ belongings. He pulls out your sword and tosses it to you.  “I have to let the others out,” he says, turning back for the hallway, but you grab his shoulder to stop him.

“Please, have you seen the girl?”

The crow winces, shaking his head. “Blair’s been barricading everyone in the forge, I’d go there first.”

You’re running before he’s finished speaking. Outside the prison, all you hear are screams and the clashing of weapons. You look for the hulking building of Iron Town’s forge and dash towards it, sword in hand. All around you townsfolk are fleeing from the trained assassins of the Star Clan, but you also see several people ferociously _fighting back_ , baring fangs and claws.

Looking around, you realize there are a great number of kindred in Iron Town, birds flying into groups of assassins who hunt down unarmed villagers, bull oxen charging through crowds, bears and panthers and wolves sinking their teeth into those who would eat them. You cut through clansmen as you pass through, doggedly heading for the forge, but then you hear the telltale lilt of Loresong, resonant and forceful from an alleyway.

Backed into a corner, you see Kimial with her hands outstretched, creating solid blasts of air that knock her attackers away. The Songs are a siren call to the Clan, however, and more and more cannibals try to fight their way down the alley for her. Next to her is the familiar green cage that holds Angela. The chameleon sees you, anxious joy on her face as she silently bangs her fists against the spell.

“Kimial!” you yell from the end of the alley, shoving away another assassin and slicing off their head. “Angela can help!”

A Star Clan woman tries to drop down from an adjacent building to avoid a direct attack, and you dash forward, running her through. The Loresinger sings a quick line of Song, blowing a gust of wind from her hands and slamming three other clansmen directly into your path. You dive out of the way.

“We are allies! Set her free!”

“I must protect the chameleon,” she says, breathless.

You tell her the same thing you tell yourself: “You can’t protect her if you’re _dead!”_ Scrambling to your feet, you deflect a flying knife when Kimial is too slow to sing it away. After shooting you a furious look, she finally blinks, considering. With a wave of her hand, Angela falls to the ground, free from her cage.

Before she’s even on her feet, she begins singing, and Kimial suddenly _shrieks_ , clutching her hands to her head. Angela continues to sing, and soon the Loresinger takes a gasping breath, eyes wide and vibrant blue. Her brows furrow when she sees you, taking a step back upon seeing your blood-stained clothes and sword, but then she sees the Star Clan group at the end of the alleyway, and she spits out a line of Song that creates a wind stronger than anything you’ve seen from her before.

“Eibon’s _spit,_ where in the hell _am_ I?!” she shouts. “Who are you?”

“It’s the stone, Mif!” Angela says, running to you and turning to smoke, climbing to your shoulder. “The white one! I figured it out-- she uses it to control her. But I can sing it away!”

“You’ve done well.” To Kimial, you say, “There’s no time. We must go to the forge.”

“Forge?” the Loresinger asks as she follows you out the alley. “Gods, is this _Iron Town?_ ”

Together, the three of you fight your way closer to the forge, Angela singing fire on anyone standing in your way. You cut through a crowd of Star Clan trying to break down the doors of the forge, their bodies blown away by Kimial.

Something collides with you, catching you off-guard and knocking Angela from your shoulder as you skid along the ground. Winded, you climb back to your feet, searching for the girl. Some Clan initiate has her by the tail, mouth opening wide, but she blasts a fireball directly into his face before you can get there.

Then, from behind you, you hear a familiar voice. “I was hoping I’d run into you, old friend.”

“Warbringer,” you say, turning in place.

“Traitor,” White Star returns just as easily, stalking around you like a vulture. His mouth is slick with blood, face lit by the glowing stars in his eyes. “I heard you fought for the Empire, but now it seems you fight for beasts? Are they paying you well?”

Your hands fit neatly on the hilt of your sword. “I fight my own war now, White,” you say, listening for the sound of Angela’s singing.

As long as you hear her voice, you will fight.

“I have been in want of this for a long time, Mifune!” You meet in a shrieking of blades, each strike a mind game you both must play ten steps ahead-- predicting old habits and countering them with new ones. The smell of blood and fire swims around you, and you’re on the battlefield once again, White Star tossing tricks and deceit though you’ve always known him to go for the most direct kill, his strength so unparalleled and limitless that he can do nothing but.  

White Star twirls his blade, taunting you. “I want you to know: Iron Town means little to me. I came for _you_. Though your beast back there is a fine parting gift, I still won’t forgive you.”

And then he throws a knife to the side. It can only be headed for one person, and the only way for you to get there in time is to leave yourself openly defenseless.

She’s singing so beautifully. You reach out with your long-bladed sword and deflect the knife, already knowing exactly where you will be impaled.

You hear the crack-boom of gunfire, instead. Your stomach is suddenly, alarmingly warm. You crumple to your knees, your fingers digging under your cloak to find the bullet hole.

“You bore me to tears,” he says, pulling you up by greedy fistfuls of your hair, holding you for a killing blow. “The famous mercenary, done in by protecting my next snack.”

You still hear Angela singing, her voice a silvered bell. She is all you need to be the ruthless beast, leaving behind a trail of death. White Star swings his sword so predictably, you need only push with your legs for a strike meant for your neck to become lodged in your shoulder instead.

With a furious roar, you bowl him over, bringing him to the ground in a pool of your blood; you wrench his sword out of your body so you can shove it down his throat.

 

\\\

 

You are scattered in the snow. Your blood and White Star’s steams on the ground as you watch the sky turn grey. The air is laced with panic, but you can’t muster the strength to feel fear.

The world is off-balance, and you are dimly aware that your soul is wandering rather aimlessly outside of your body. Corpses rise and walk among the living. The girl sings that Song-- the one about a wyvern-- and sets all of Iron Town ablaze in a storm of fire.

You are not a religious man. Or rather, you feel that the gods have no reason to acknowledge you, and so you are separated from them as much as Angela is connected. But you hope, despite everything, that they hear this one plea you have-- watch over this girl, who’s dragging you into the infirmary in hopes of saving your life. You aren’t allowed to see the world where she can live freely, but you hope the gods will protect her so that she may-- your beautiful, reckless, violent daughter of your heart, who learned how to live by watching you.

And as you make this singular request, a giant hand, darker than a shadow, reaches across the sky and plucks you from your body. Its fingers glimmer with stars, and you are relieved-- the Nightwalker has risen, here to carry your soul away to wherever it is slain warriors go.

 

* * *

 

**_Maka_ **

\\\

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come inside?” Marie asks, stifling her yawn with a paw. “There’s plenty of supper.”

“I am sure,” you reply over your shoulder. “Thank you.”

The bear doesn’t look convinced, but she ambles back into the hut, Stein on her back.

It is quiet in the clearing. Wes and Soul are gone, Harvar and the kindred have left to protect Iron Town, and you remain, too weak to do much else but sit outside with your elk because the cold doesn't bother you anymore.

Crona presses his muzzle into your hands, but you have become a ghost, feeling nothing as the white smoke of his breath curls around your bandaged fingers.

The sun bleeds the sky in red, and Raskogr whispers. It speaks through Asura and into your ears, and there are so many voices you are surprised you can still feel loneliness.

You take a deep breath and hope everyone is all right.

Scratching under Crona’s chin, you listen to the wind as it sighs through heavy tree boughs.

Maka.

You look up from from your hands, startled. Eyes searching the clearing, you call out, “Who’s there?”

A breeze brushes your cheek. The voices of the forest grow louder in your ears as you strain to hear a particular one; even if ten winters have passed, it seems there is a part of you that can single it out from the din of thousands.

Maka, says the wind. 

You wobble to your feet, breath trembling as you are beckoned forward into Raskogr. Crona trails behind you as you slip between trees, little tricks of light darting around the edges of your vision.

Guided by flashes of bright wings, the longer you travel this unused path, the more sure your steps become. Soon you don’t need to see her, only following the whisper of feathers, and it’s not long before the road seems as clear as day in the dusk of the forest.

Maka, says the wind, and suddenly your path crosses with another.

You look up to see the red sunset catching on pale fur, Soul walking out from between tall pines with his nose to the snow-covered ground. He smells you before he sees you, soul catcher still around his neck when he lifts his head in surprise.

For a long moment, neither of you speak, the silence punctuated by Crona blowing loudly through his nose. He is nearly as large as his brother, completely white save for his red eyes and black nose. Seeing him again as a god is to suffer elation and quiet heartache in the same breath.

Soul takes one step forward, ears tilting back. “You’ve gotten worse,” he says, upset.

You listlessly nod. Containing Asura’s hatred bottles him up inside you, and you think you will soon run out of space. “I am tainted,” you say in weak jest. Soul drops his ears further, wincing at the joke. With a small smile, you say, “I am glad I got to meet you again.”

He dips his head, somber. “My place is here. I will not leave it,” he quietly says. Padding closer, he comes within arm’s reach and shows you his neck. “I have your instrument. Take it.”

“Mm.” Reaching for the soul catcher, you hook your fingers under the cord around Soul’s neck, combing through his soft fur. You pause. “No,” you murmur, letting it slip from your hands. “I don’t need it anymore. Keep it, please.”

“You said it is sacred. Isn’t it precious to you?”

You nod again. “Please.”

With troubled eyes, he says, “Maka--”

“Brother, where-- oh, there you are,” says Wes, trotting out of the trees. “Sister?”

Standing side by side, the wolves make you feel even lonelier. You perform the Bloodless Bow. “Hello.”

“What are you doing here?”

It feels a little cruel for you to find your mother so soon after the brothers losing theirs. “I was led by the Brightwinged.”

The wolves share a look. “As were we,” says Soul. “But why here? There is nothing of importance.”

“It was at my request,” a familiar voice says.

You whip your head to the right to find what you can only describe as emptiness. A dark blotch stands among you and the wolves, its silhouette made visible only by the snow-covered trees around it. As you watch, the shadow takes on a feminine shape, a pale, featureless face appearing between parting streams of pitch.

When the shadow turns that empty face in your direction, Asura’s rage fills you fit to bursting. Antlers formed from darkness slowly seep into view as the Nightwalker’s sister says with surprise, “You see _me, Demonsbane?”_

You clench your throbbing hands at your sides, swallowing the salamander’s fire. “I do.”

Tsubaki tilts her head to the red-streaked sky, and her river of hair then rains upward, pouring into the canopy and blotting out the waning daylight. In the small pocket of night she creates, her face becomes visible. Her indigo eyes glow joyously as she smiles. “I am glad.” Then, more gravely, she says, “I haven’t much time. My brother is hunted.”

The wolves both exclaim in anger and surprise. “What?!”

“Who dares attack Masamune?”

The god tilts her head, as if listening to something within her. “Many, though Thane aims to thwart the hunting party. But he does not see what lurks in the shadows like I do. The sparrow has brought you here to one of my Gates-- I will take you as close as I can.” She she closes her eyes, concentrating. Behind her, a swirling tunnel forms, puncturing the forest with a dark hallway that ends with a different view of Raskogr. Tsubaki wrings her hands together, shifting uneasily. “I am only my brother’s shadow-- I do not know the hearts of heaven or what they plan-- but something big is coming, and the stars have named you necessary.”

She looks to you, then, reaching for your aching hands and taking them in hers. “Maka, daughter of Spirit and Suzume, you are strong enough to carry a demon god in your flesh, and you cherish life enough to keep him there. Please help us. We have placed our hopes in you as well.”

 

\\\

 

You go to save the god who had saved you.

The sky is darker than you feel it should be-- it had been sunset when you followed the wolves through the Gate, and though walking through that tunnel of shadows had only taken a few moments, the stars are already appearing overhead when you arrive.

From the west, you hear a frightening thunderclap of noise-- it’s something you’ve never heard before, though the demon in you knows it intimately. “Gunfire,” Soul says, and he and his brother lead you alongside an icy creek, dashing towards the noise. Up ahead are the verdant green trees surrounding the Nightwalker’s lake, peeking through Raskogr’s winter snows, and over their tops you see massive, luminescent antlers searching for the night. The Deer God grows so tall he becomes mountainous, his face rising above the canopy to kiss the heavens.

Tsubaki joins you and the wolves, reaching from shadow to shadow towards her brother’s lake. But suddenly she stops, her feminine form shattering into pieces.

“My brother--” she says, her voice a hundred different darknesses, and as you search for Masamune’s face through the trees, you feel something in you _stop._

You’ve become severed, broken away from something which you had never known you were connected until it vanished. Wes and Soul cringe and writhe with a hysteric kind of grief, and Crona trips while running at full tilt, blundering to the ground and throwing you from his back. You tumble away, reeling from the sudden silence in your heart, adrift in a world without a god.

Tsubaki reforms as a dark fawn for a few moments before splitting apart again. “My brother falls.” 

The air becomes stale. Overhead, the stars are held by a deathlike stillness, leaching away the colors of the forest to muddy, lifeless greys. You stumble to your feet, suffering a deafness of the soul. Rising high above the trees, you watch as the Nightwalker’s head falls from his body, his neck weeping stars.

Distantly, you hear screaming. _You are too late_ , says Asura, his deranged glee a putrid wound in your chest. The Deer God’s stars filter through the wilting forest, their voices singing a song both ancient and despairing. You watch as the lights float down to the earth, instantly sprouting--

“The scales have been tipped!” Tsubaki cries out.

All manner of forest creatures crawl out of the ground, the souls that had failed to be taken to heaven breathing life into their bones. They rise as one, skeletal animals seeking out the living. You draw your crescent dagger, defending yourself as the bones of a boar try to gore you with its rotting tusks. You call for Crona so you can put some distance between yourself and this army of death, but your elk has been quickly cornered. Though he knocks scores of them aside with his antlers, he is pushed back even further away from you.

Asura’s laughter poisons your blood. _The living shall be put in their rightful place by those they forsook,_ he says, voice chewing your bones as you try to get to your elk’s side.

The earth suddenly heaves beneath you, and you’re thrown to the ground once more, weapon knocked out of your grasp. Crona brays in panic-- you must get to him quickly, but now the dead reach for you as well, and you are unarmed. You roll to your feet, knocking away the bones and sinews of a fox with your heel and reaching for your dagger. Something paws at your back and you dance away, whirling around with knife in hand to attack whatever comes for you, but you find Soul there first, his fangs crunching around the creature. He flings it away with a heaving toss of his head. Streaking behind him, you see Wes leaping for Crona, carving through his attackers with his jaws.

“Get on!” Soul roars, snapping at another skeleton while you bury a hand in his fur and jump for his back. The wolf then dashes after his brother and Crona, weaving around the corpses of bears and wolves and deer, but before you can make it to them, something bursts from Masamune’s lake with a loud, bone-snapping crack of crashing trees. The ground trembles again, Soul bracing himself to stay upright, and you look up to see a towering nightmare moving through the forest, separating you from Wes and the elk.

Asura’s glee suddenly dies, replaced by a dizzying, seething rage that makes you clutch at your chest with a wheezing breath. As tall as Masamune’s headless body, a black and gold, many-headed serpent pushes through the trees, each scaled neck ending with a different reptilian face. The centermost has sprouted the antlers of the Nightwalker, and wears a face you and Asura recognize-- it is the woman from Iron Town who had shot you with a crossbow. She has stolen Masamune’s powers, and she hisses back at the Deer God when he reaches across the sky for her, blindly seeking his head.

The Nightwalker’s enormous hand misses its mark, slamming into the forest floor and leaving behind a river of thick, bubbling blood that contaminates the earth. Several of the serpent’s huge heads strike at the hand, ripping even more blood from it before slithering away in the direction of Iron Town.

“Brother!” Wes barks, flanked by Crona. The two quickly back away from the cursed blood, the both of them unable to cross. “Do not let the demon escape! We will go around!” he calls before running into the forest.

The Deer God reaches once more for the serpent, lifting his massive hand and swinging it back down, and you realize with horror that you and Soul are in the line of fire. The wolf sprints away, trying to outrun Masamune, but you will not make it in time, the shadows of his fingers stretching over you both.

But then those shadows burst out of the ground, wrenching the Nightwalker’s fingers away.

“I am not strong enough!” Tsubaki shouts as Soul continues to run after the serpent, and you look back to see the midnight shape of a long-legged deer, the gloaming of her antlers bending under the weight of her brother’s power. “You must retrieve his head!”

Soul breathes heavily as he chases the black snake, the world dying around you. The serpent leaves a trail of destruction, its heads spitting steaming venom that burns every inch of Raskogr, and the demon in you howls for control. Where Asura had been pleased to see the Nightwalker fall, his outrage from seeing the one who had shot you both so utterly defiling nature and life now threatens to overtake you.

But you are angry, too, and you will not be wielded by his hatred. You will accept all of him wholly-- because once you have identified your own rage and despair, it is easy to manage his. Before the salamander brings your death, you will _wield him._

Eating up the earth with his huge paws, Soul catches up with the serpent, jumping for her enormous tail. Digging in his claws, he runs along her scales and coils, making for the the head with the antlers. Several other heads twist their long necks to find you, and they turn their barbed mouths to spray you both in venom. You do not feel it, but the wolf bares his teeth and cries out, the acid burning him.

You watch, horrified, as his moon-white fur slowly becomes black, cursing him. “ **No!** Soul, you’ll become like me!” you shout as he continues to scale the demon’s body.

“I will also fight a god to protect my home!” he roars, leaping for the twining neck of the antlered snake head. “Now **fly!”**

You share a moment of weightlessness, and then he digs his fangs into the serpent’s neck, her blood spilling over his face. Power crackling along your arms, you push off Soul’s shoulders and become a rippling, crimson thing shrouded with black flame. Your dagger melts and morphs in your hand, growing into a monstrous blade.

You resonate with the demon god Asura and choose to protect life.

 

* * *

 

**_Thane_ **

\\\

Your dream had been different. The curtain wall had gone down in flames, Iron Town burning as it always burns, and though the salamander’s tail had still constricted you to death, you had seen a great hand stretching over the city, fingers freckled with stars, and watched as it snuffed the fire out.

Harvar had always asked to know if your nightmare had changed, and when it finally had, it reminded you of him, which reminded you of the gun he gave you, which then reminded you of your broken wrist when you had fired at Moro. And that’s when you hatched your plan to have all the rifles sabotaged.

But it wasn’t supposed to be like this. You had planned to leave the Deer God in peace, but you have only helped cause a catastrophe far worse than your father ever had. Medusa wasn’t supposed to gobble up the Nightwalker’s head and tear after your home.

As Ox tries to drag you to safety, your blood soaking hot and hopeless through your clothes, you see Tsubaki. Her long hair blends into the ruined earth as she stands before Black Star, her headless brother slowly reaching for them both. To see them together lances your heart, because even as the world is ending, you know plainly that there is something connecting the two that you can not touch.

You want to call out to him, and maybe you do, because he looks over his bandaged shoulder at you. The expression on his face as he takes Tsubaki’s hand doesn’t make him look like an assassin at all.

And then he’s gone.

Tsubaki grows, her hands reaching up to touch the ceiling of the world as her body shines with twisting ropes of light. The heavens swirl around her fingers, brought back to life, and something in you snaps into place.

The night sky of her hair wraps around both her and her headless brother, binding them together until she absorbs him, too. She then reaches past you and Ox, carefully plucking something fiery from the forest and cupping it with both hands. She brings it to her mouth, swallowing it whole.

Her dark antlers glow with stars, souls unfurling into luminous blossoms. She looks to you then, those indigo eyes shining so brightly that you must close yours, and you wonder in the brief moment before you fall into darkness if you had imagined the scar on her face.

 


	8. balance

**_Black Star_ **

\\\

There are so many lost stars in Raskogr that it takes you several nights to bear them all. You carefully arrange them in the sky: humans, kindred, and a bright warrior. When you find the souls of your father and his clan, you hold them inside you for safekeeping, next to the demon you take from Maka.

 

\\\

 

The sun rises one morning and you are yourself again.

Your soul is still linked to Tsubaki in a way that will never come undone, and you will return when the sun sets, becoming the Nightwalker with her once more to take the dead to heaven. Until then, you trek through the forest, heading for a bed in a tiny room that you know is so much warmer than Death’s Table had ever been.

 

* * *

 

**_Mifune_ **

\\\

 

 

* * *

 

**_Maka_ **

\\\

 

“Whose horse is this?” you hear Marie say.

“He’s not one of ours,” says Stein. “Looks like Aranei stock.”

Marie hums. “Does he still have the goods?”

“No. He does not ‘have the goods’.”

“Drat. I’d love to breed a few and use the Empress’s own horses to storm down the palace.”

Eyes sliding open, you are met with the ceiling of Stein’s hut, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. It takes a long, peculiar moment to realize you are _cold._

Taking a shaking, hopeful breath, you search for the demon god in you, but there is nothing, his absence leaving your soul feeling feathery and light. Sitting up in a pile of furs and quilts, you see that the door to Stein’s hut is cracked open, unable to completely shut because the latch has been warped by Marie’s strength. A horse breeding discussion carries on the chill air, slipping through the crack.

You slide your feet off the cot and down to the floor, but as you pull the furs away, you pause to stare at your hands-- it’s been so long since you’ve seen them that you hardly recognize them. You find your shoes and pull them on, the mundanity of the act somewhat dreamlike. Standing and making your way to the entrance, you feel as if you’re floating when you place your unburned hand on the door and quietly pull it open.

Outside, a fresh snow has fallen, the sun glinting off its surface like a jewel. To your left, you see Marie facing away, gesturing to a horse that has wandered to the hut. Opposite of her, Stein sips coffee from a steaming mug that has melded to his hand. He sees you over Marie’s shoulder but makes no gesture or form of acknowledgement save the little glowing twist of the smoke escaping his eye, pointing you around the back of the hut.

You blink, looking to the right and finding god-sized paw prints in the snow. They lead you around the hut, the sounds of laughter and growling reaching your ears.

The wolf gods of Raskogr play, kicking snow to the air as they wrestle and tackle each other. Soul is as white as his brother, the catcher gleaming on his neck when Wes smacks his face into the snow with a paw.

You laugh.

“Maka!” Soul says, shaking snow off his nose. He bounds for you at an alarming speed, but slides to a stop before you, snuffling your face. “There you are.”

You don’t know what to say-- you are so joyed that he is alive, that you are alive to see him alive-- and you swallow a lump in your throat before you take your hands and gently touch the sides of his face.

The giant wolf squints. “Ah-- your hands are freezing.”

His fur is soft under your fingers. Hot tears spill from your eyes, and you’re so shocked to feel them that you let him go to wipe them away. Soul then turns into smoke, human hands reaching up to help you dry your face.

Your mouth falls open, eyes wide with astonishment. “You--”

He nods, the corner of his mouth picking up in a smile.

“But--”

“I didn’t let it go,” he says, red eyes looking into yours briefly before frowning at all the tears still bubbling over your eyes. He diligently wipes them away with his thumbs. “Being human.”

“But you hate humans,” you choke out.

Soul shrugs the tiniest bit. “Not all of them,” he mutters. “I told you it is difficult to hate you.”

You screw your watery eyes shut, biting your lip and covering the tops of his hands with yours, feeling his warmth on your face.

Somewhat awkwardly, Soul slides his hands away to wrap his arms around you, like you had done for him, warding winter’s chill with his body. Over his shoulder, you see Wes tilting his head to the side, tongue lolling. And stepping out out of the forest behind the wolf god is Crona, a tawny bird perched on one of his antlers.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Thane_ **

_\\\_

 

Your left arm is missing. The lopsidedness of your body is alarming, but Ox, Harvar, and Blair support you, so you think you will be able to manage.

Your father is dead and half of his town is demolished. You mourn in your twenty-second year as you watch the townsfolk stack the many corpses for a funeral pyre. Kimial, Arachne’s now former Loresinger, has a skill for healing, and tends to the stump of your arm while you oversee the bodies.

“She’ll keep coming,” the woman tells you, wrapping your shoulder with a roll of linen Jacqueline had scrounged from the rubble of the city. “With so much of the Clan dead, she will soon be even more powerful, and will come for the Nightwalker and Iron Town.”

You nod. “We must rebuild quickly. But _cleanly,_ without the blood of Raskogr.” You wince as Kimial sings something that makes your shoulder sting and tingle. “We owe our lives to the kindred and their gods. I will give them all the support I can,” you say, looking over the cold heap of the forge towards the forest.

 

\\\

 

Early one morning, you are trying to tie your sash with your right hand and your teeth when you hear the familiar sound of your window creaking open, the eastern sun painting your room in reds and yellows.

“Need a hand, _my lord?_ ”

Pulling the sash out of your mouth, you slowly look over your shoulder to see him smiling broadly, the heavens bright in the sky of his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 


	9. [Epilogue:] deliverance

**_Angela_ **

\\\

Harvar’s eyes are milk-white as the Empress tries to force him to reveal Iron Town’s battle strategy. He can not see you perching on the back of the throne. No one can.

The blood gutters in the blade keep it light, making it easy to draw from the small of your back and slice her across the throat, just like Mif taught you.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is entirely the result of the amazing partners I’ve had through the event, and I could not have done it without them. Every single member of the #dreamteam has been fundamental to the completion of this story, no take-backs. Thank you for sticking with me past the deadline, guys. You’ve worked so hard and I am both proud and tremendously honored. 
> 
> Huge thanks to all of my betas: Adorabbey, Adulterclavis, Darkpurply, Fabulousanima, Sojustifiable, Thebrightestfell, Victoriapyrrhi, and Zxanthe.
> 
> Special thanks to raining-down-hearts for ‘Fallen Star’, and to everyone else who supported me these several months, encouraging me to finish despite everything else going on in my life.


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